


Dead Body Moving

by NeQuittezPas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood Drinking, Canonical Character Death, Crowley (Supernatural) Has Feelings, Crowley (Supernatural) Just Wants To Be Loved, Crowley (Supernatural) on Human Blood, Eventual Smut, F/M, Kidnapping, Mentions of Cancer, Nearly Human Crowley (Supernatural), Original Character(s), Suicidal Thoughts, Vampire Turning, Vampires, so much kidnapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-05 21:44:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 130,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13396857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeQuittezPas/pseuds/NeQuittezPas
Summary: Nell never expected to return from her cross-country roadtrip, but when a fellow camper goes missing during her stay at the Grand Canyon, she may live far, far longer than she expected. REWRITTEN.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! It's been over a year since I first started this story, and it's been on the backburner but never abandoned for that time. I wasn't happy with the trajectory of the story after I posted the first few chapters, and since then I've done significant rewrites and really hammered out the direction of this story. It's still a work in progress, but it is now completely outlined and there should be no more significant rewrite in the future.
> 
> If you're new to this story, please read on and enjoy. If you were a fan of this story before, I hope you'll appreciate the improvements I've made to the first few chapters, and then the rest of the story as it's posted.

 

* * *

_I am a dead body moving, I've got lightning in my hand  
_ _I won't be here for long so you've got to understand  
_ _You can dance with the demon, look him dead into the eyes  
_ _I've already been where we go when we die_

_-Dead Body Moving, The Devil Makes Three_

* * *

Nell thought she could die happy right then, staring out over the Grand Canyon.

The late summer sun warmed the scattered needles around her campsite, spreading the scent of them all around. The sun was just setting over orange and gold cliffs, creating dramatic silhouettes of light and shadow in the canyon. Birds chirped. Wind whistled. Woodsmoke mingled with the smell of pine as the sky turned pink and purple.

Nell took a deep breath, savoring the smell, the sight, the sounds. The deep satisfaction of breathing clean air. Of breathing at all.

She'd taken places like this for granted, before. She'd always thought there'd be plenty of time to visit them, later. Once she was further along in her career. Once she'd found someone to settle down with. Some of the best years of her life had been spent hunched over a computer, far away from sunshine and the smell of pine needles.

But now Nell's time was short, and she was determined to cram as much living into what time she had left.

More out of habit than anything else, she fished her phone out of her pocket to take a picture of the sunset. It didn't measure up to the real thing in the slightest, and she frowned at the image for a while, considering.

She wanted to call. She did, really. Even if she would get an earful from her mother, she wanted to hear her parents' voices and let them know that she was still okay. In some ways, better than she had been in years—though she'd never tell them that.

But it was best that she didn't. Not if she wanted to live the last few weeks of her life free, like this.

Instead, she switched to the front-facing camera. For a second, before she pressed record, she hesitated. The golden light of the setting sun softened the visible signs of her sickness, but Nell could still spot them. The sharp jut of her collarbone. The gauntness in her cheeks. The purple bags under her eyes.

With a shake of her head, Nell pushed away her dissatisfaction with the image and pressed record.

"Hi all!" Nell made an effort to put some cheer in her voice, hiking her lips up into a smile as she continued. "I made it to the Grand Canyon safe and sound, and it's  _beautiful_. My campsite's right on the edge, look—" Nell flipped her phone around to get a view of the sunset over the cliffs, then turned it back around. "You guys will have to come here sometime. Maybe when Will's kids are a little older. And there are some nice cabins up here, too, so Mom wouldn't even have to sleep in a tent if she didn't want to."

Nell trailed off for a moment, wondering what else to say. "As for me… I'm doing okay. Getting some light hiking in, nothing too strenuous. I'm taking lots of pictures for you all, so hopefully they turn out okay…" Nell shrugged. "Anyway, I won't stay here too long. Another few days, then I'm moving on."

Nell opened her mouth to say her next stop, but stopped herself. Instead she said, "If I'm still up for it when I hit the Pacific I think I'll drive up the coast. Maybe I'll make it to Canada. Or even Alaska." Nell chewed her lip thoughtfully, trying to think of anything else to say that wouldn't be too much information and coming up blank.

"I think that's all, for now. I love you all." Nell blew an awkward kiss at the phone camera and ended the recording. Her phone pinged at her irritably, alerting her that all of her backlogged video messages were in danger of making her run out of storage space. She'd have to upload them soon. And actually send them to her family, she supposed.

Behind her, gravel crunched and car doors slammed. Nell glanced over her shoulder, noting a car pulling into the campsite to the right of hers. The polite thing to do would probably be to greet the newcomers and say hello, but… Nell glanced at the sky.

She could be polite later. No sense wasting the last rays of this beautiful sunset.

Nell turned back around, intent on watching the sun sink down fully behind the cliffs and appreciating the watercolor sky. One of the newcomers, though, had other plans. Leaves crunched loudly, and Nell heard a startled shout of protest. Nell craned her head around again—just in time to get a faceful of fur.

Nell couldn't help a startled laugh. The offender was a very enthusiastic dog, an ambiguous labrador mix with a tail wagging so fast it blurred. Nell pushed the dog away from where it was attempting to lick her face, still laughing as its apparent owner jogged over, babbling apologies.

"Roxie, no! Down!" An older man jogged forward and took hold of the dog's collar, gently pulling her away from Nell's camp chair. He looked mortified, and exhausted. "I am so sorry. She's usually not like this, but she's been in the car all day..." Roxie, for her part, was entirely unapologetic, wriggling in the man's hold excitedly.

Nell wiped slobber off her face with her sleeve, but smiled at the man to let him know she wasn't bothered. "It's fine." She cast her gaze over her shoulder at the supplies poking out of the bed of his truck. "You camping here tonight?"

The man smiled, relieved at her dismissal, and nodded. "Yes, ma'am. We'll be your neighbors all through Friday." Still gripping Roxie's collar, he glanced over Nell's shoulder, catching sight of the sun setting over the cliffs, and heaved a tired sigh.

Nell took pity on him. "Why don't you get your tent set up while there's still daylight? Roxie and I can play fetch."

The man's shoulders sagged in relief. "Are you sure?"

"Of course I am. Aren't I, Roxie?" The dog practically writhed in excitement as Nell addressed her. The man chuckled and released her collar. Roxie immediately rushed Nell again, and Nell held her back, laughing. "Alright, no jumping. You wanna play fetch?" Nell grinned as the dog's ears perked up attentively, eyes wide with anticipation. "Bring me a stick!"

There was something relaxing about spending time with dogs. They were simple. Easy to understand, easy to please. All Roxie wanted in the world was food, shelter, and someone to throw sticks and scratch her tummy for her.

Nell enjoyed that simplicity, and she was happy to help. She threw the stick until Roxie exhausted herself, laying down at Nell's feet and panting. By the time the sun had finished setting and Roxie's owner returned, Nell had acquiesced to Roxie's wordless, puppy-dog-eyed request for a belly rub.

"She's got you wrapped around her paw already, I see."

Nell didn't bother denying it, smiling as she found the sweet spot on Roxie's belly which made her leg thump against the ground. "Who could say no to this precious face?"

"Thank you for watching her while I got set up." The man jerked a thumb over his shoulder, where there was now a tent and the beginnings of a crackling fire. "Can I thank you with a beer and some hot dogs?"

Nell thought about turning him down, but all she had in her camper right now were some instant noodles, dehydrated food, and trail snacks. The idea of a cold beer and a hot dog cooked over an open flame was too tempting.

Finally she nodded. "I'm not one to turn down beer and hot dogs."

Henry, as the man introduced himself, was a wedding photographer by trade, but preferred nature photography as a hobby. He worked most weekends, which is what brought him to the north rim of the Grand Canyon in the middle of the week. He was hoping to get some good wildlife shots, though he didn't hold out much hope of sneaking up on animals with Roxie by his side. Nell nodded and smiled and asked questions, enjoying listening to the man talk while she roasted hot dogs over the fire and slowly peeled the label off her bottle of beer.

"So what's your story?" Henry asked as he carefully eased a hot dog off his roasting fork and into a bun. "What brings you out to the Grand Canyon on a Wednesday? Vacation?"

"Vacation," Nell lied with a nod.

"Alone?" Henry asked, sounding simultaneously concerned and self-conscious, like he thought he might be rude by asking.

Nell shrugged easily and repeated her go-to lie. "Hadn't taken a vacation since I started work. My boss basically ordered me to use all the vacation days I'd built up, so I figured I'd drive around and do some sightseeing."

Henry asked about her work, and where she'd been so far, and Nell told him about a few of the oddest roadside attractions she'd stumbled upon and some of the best diners she'd discovered on the way. Henry recommended a few good places to visit within a few days' drive, and Nell wrote them down eagerly. They talked for a few hours, sipping beer and roasting hot dogs and marshmallows over the fire, before Nell excused herself and turned in for the night.

The next morning, as Nell prepared coffee with her camp stove, Roxie invited herself into Nell's campsite. The dog was far too energetic for so early in the day, and Henry followed her, apologizing again for his dog's energy. Nell noticed his eyes linger longingly on the coffee in her french press, and so with a roll of her eyes and an amused smile, she dug out another camp mug for him and poured two cups when it finished steeping.

"You are a saint," Henry declared after a sip, sighing contentedly and watching Roxie chase a butterfly. "I'm hoping today's hike will tire her out."

"Somehow, I suspect it'll be the other way around." Nell hid a teasing smile behind her mug, looking between the liberal amount of gray peppered in Henry's hair and the rambunctious dog. Henry, following her gaze, sighed, resigned. "What trail are you taking?"

"The Overlook."

Nell hadn't hiked that particular trail, though she had a good idea of where it was. It went right along the edge of the canyon and would probably have spectacular views—hence the name—but she had crossed it off her list for some reason.

"How long's that one?"

Henry scrubbed a hand over his stubble, eyes scrunching up at the corners as he thought. "Well it's an out and back, a little over six miles long… so, about thirteen, total. And it's about a mile to the trailhead from here, so fifteen, really."

And that would be why she ruled it out. Nell could manage one mile, maybe two, before she exhausted herself and had to rest. Even getting to the trailhead would be a challenge for her.

"Well it sounds exhausting, alright," Nell agreed.

The hike would take all day, and Henry needed to get started early if he wanted to get back to camp before dark, so he quickly finished his coffee, thanked Nell, and packed his things to head out with Roxie.

Nell, then, was free to spend the day as she liked. She took a leisurely stroll to the lodge for breakfast and lingered in the visitor's center gift shop for nearly an hour. She spent a good long while rifling indecisively through racks of postcards, wondering whether she should send one to her family. Many of the cards read "Wish you were here," which sounded nice but wasn't strictly true. Eventually she bought a fairly generic card with a picture of the cliffs which said simply "Greetings from the Grand Canyon," along with a stuffed toy mule deer and bobcat for her niece and nephew.

Outside, she once again took the time to admire the beauty of the canyon. All around her retirees and families with young children walked about, snapping pictures with cell phones and professional cameras alike. Nell had already snapped all the pictures she wanted to take when she'd first arrived, though, and so she simply looked. Looked, and tried to commit this place to memory.

Being here brought Nell a strange sense of peace. The enormity of it, the sheer amount of time it took for water to carve away the rock and form the cliffs, was so vast Nell could barely comprehend it. It was truly  _grand_ , in a way that made her feel small and insignificant. A mere blip in the lifetime of an ancient natural wonder.

After some time pondering the ageless canyon and her own mortality, Nell made her way back to the lodge for a hot lunch, napped half the afternoon away, and then ate re-hydrated curry by her campfire as the sun set. As the sun dipped down below the horizon and Nell doused her fire, she noticed with some concern that Henry and Roxie hadn't returned to their campsite yet.

Nell was a worrier by nature. The absence of Henry and his dog unsettled her, and gave her an uneasy feeling. But the older man had seemed experienced, and prepared. As Nell had learned the night before, Henry had been hiking and camping for longer than Nell herself had even been alive. He probably had a flashlight with him, and it was still pretty early. They'd be back soon.

"They're fine," Nell assured herself aloud, quietly, in hopes it would ease the worry in her gut. It didn't, but her eyes were heavy with exhaustion. She couldn't stay up to wait for them. Telling herself she was being ridiculous, and that she'd see the kind man and his dog in the morning, she crawled into her little teardrop-shaped camper and let the whistling of the wind in the canyon lull her to sleep.

* * *

The next morning dawned chilly. Nell cocooned herself in a blanket and set about preparing coffee immediately. She got out an extra mug for Henry, who would almost certainly need the caffeine after yesterday's hike. Curling her fingers around her warm drink with one hand and holding the blanket around her like a cloak with the other, Nell wandered over to Henry's campsite.

The first thing Nell noticed was that Roxie was nowhere to be seen. But it got chilly in the night, Nell thought, so maybe Henry had brought her into the tent to sleep with him? The tent was still zipped closed—maybe they were both still asleep.

Certain that that must be it, Nell started to quietly creep back out of the campsite, determined not to wake them from a much-needed lie-in. But something stopped her on the edge of the campsite, and she glanced back.

Was it just her worried imagination, or did the campsite seem untouched?

Chewing her lip, Nell backtracked, peering at the tent. In the dim morning light it was difficult to tell if anyone was inside.

"Henry?" She hazarded, standing just outside. Silence. "Roxie?"

No matter how tired she was, Roxie wasn't the type of dog to sleep through someone calling her name. Still, just to be sure, Nell unzipped the tent flap a few inches to peek inside.

Empty.

Last night's worry bloomed anew in Nell's gut, and she mumbled possible explanations into her coffee cup. They might have come in late and left early, before Nell woke up. They could come back any minute, back from breakfast or a morning walk.

Nell want back to her own campsite to wait, casting anxious glances at Henry's empty site as she drank the rest of the coffee she prepared. After thirty minutes, she'd drained the entire french press and couldn't stand to sit still any longer. If only to put her worried mind to rest, she'd ask the other campers nearby whether they'd seen Henry and Roxie come or go.

But talking to the other campers only made her more concerned. No one else in the campsite had seen or heard from man or dog since they left yesterday morning. At this news, Nell decided that perhaps she was  _not_  worrying for nothing. She made for the ranger's station to file a report.

The window was occupied when she arrived, so she hung back, fiddling with her shirtsleeve as two men is cheap suits talked with the ranger on duty. Nell didn't try to eavesdrop—she just wanted it to be over quickly so she could file a report on Henry—but she couldn't help overhearing some of the conversation.

"So Dave Carter, he was the first one to go missing from this campsite?" Asked the taller one. Based on the suits, Nell guessed they were government officials of some sort—though the tall one did have much longer hair than she'd expect from a government official. But maybe she was just used to the more tightly-laced bureaucrats of the D.C. metro area.

"I don't know about the  _first_ ," the ranger hedged. "You have to understand, people get lost on the trails all the time. Search and rescue's a regular thing around here. But Carter? His things were packed up and his car was gone. People forget to deposit their check-out slips all the time."

The tall one shook his head. The shorter of the men explained, gruffly, "His car was recently found abandoned at one of the nearby trailheads."

The ranger paused, and when she responded she sounded much less defensive. "I'm sorry to hear that. But that was two months ago. Sorry to say it, but if he hasn't been found by now…"

"We understand," the tall one placated. "We're just trying to find a pattern, see if we can figure out what's going."

The men proceeded to throw out several more names—more campers and day hikers who'd gone missing in the park over the last few weeks. With each new name, Nell's worry grew.

She'd already been concerned. It got cold out here at nights. Henry could easily have suffered from hypothermia if he'd gotten lost on the trail and spent the night outdoors, even with Roxie to keep him warm. But from the way these men were talking, it sounded like a good half dozen people had gone missing in this area of the park over the span of a few months.

The ranger was right—people got lost all the time in National Parks. Usually, they were found pretty quickly. A few hours, a few days. A week or two, maybe. But these others had been missing for  _weeks_ , some of them for  _months_ , and none of them had been found.

And now Henry and his dog dropped off the map? Nell couldn't dismiss that as a coincidence.

"Excuse me, ma'am." Nell jolted a little. She'd been too distracted to notice the men in suits wrap up their talk with the ranger and approach. The shorter one, with shorter hair and a strong air of authority, had addressed her. "Everything alright?"

"Sorry, I didn't mean to eavesdrop—" Nell hesitated. "You're investigating disappearances in the park?"

"It's nothing to worry about," the man said immediately, in a confident, assured voice that made her think of politicians. "Just a routine investigation."

The taller one, though, was watching Nell's face carefully, and furrowed his brow. "Do you know something?"

"The man camping next to me never came back last night," Nell blurted immediately.

A silent exchange occurred between the two, serious and meaningful, and Nell's stomach lurched. The shorter one reached into his jacket, and the taller one mimicked the motion, both flashing badges with solemn faces.

"I'm Agent Ford, this is Agent Hamill," introduced the shorter one, evidently Ford. "Tell us everything you know."

Nell rushed out all the details she could think of: when Henry arrived, the trail he planned to take, the state of his campsite in the morning, and her questioning of her fellow campers. "No one saw them come back last night, or leave this morning," Nell finished.

The men traded another meaningful glance, which apparently decided something, as Agent Hamill turned to her and addressed her the way one might address a skittish rabbit. "What's your name?"

Nell's lips twisted a bit at the idea of giving her name to law enforcement, but she pushed away the concern. It was pretty low on her list of priorities right now. "Eleanor McNamara. But I go by Nell."

"Right, Nell," Hamill said, "Could you show us to Henry's campsite? Let us take a look around?"

Nell nodded, almost jogging back to the campsite she walked so quickly. She stood back apprehensively when they arrived, hesitant to enter or touch anything in case it ended up becoming evidence. The agents wandered around the site while she matched, poking around the tent, examining the fire pit, and muttering to each other.

"You said Henry told you which trail he was going on?" Agent Hamill asked, pulling away from the tent. From the tense set of his jaw, Nell guessed he hadn't found anything out of the ordinary.

"Yes. The Overlook."

"You got a map?" Nell fetched it from her trailer and spread it out on her own camp site's picnic table for the two agents. Hamill traced the trail line with his finger, studying the map thoughtfully. "This is the one?"

"Yes. The trail guide said to budget five or six hours for it." Nell had checked and re-checked that in her worry. "Henry's a photographer, so accounting for time to stop and take pictures he could have been out all day, but he still should have been back before dark."

"Dean, look at this," Hamill said urgently. Nell guessed whatever he'd found on the map had jolted him out of keeping up formalities. "Cave."

"You think that's something?" Ford peered down at where his partner was pointing on the map.

"Could be. It's the only thing on the trail that isn't just woods." Hamill tapped the map thoughtfully. "I'll have to do some more research on the trail, see what I can dig up."

Nell stared between the two men, confused. "Aren't you going to call in search and rescue?" Hamill's head jerked up, eyes wide and looking sheepish, which Nell interpreted as a resounding 'no'. Baffled, Nell said, voice rising, "Henry and Roxie could be injured out there, or worse. It got really cold last night, and they wouldn't have even had a sleeping bag for warmth. They need search and rescue as soon as possible."

"Hey now, calm down." Agent Ford put his hands up in a pacifying gesture that only served to further raise Nell's hackles. "We'll find Henry, alright? And his dog. But we need to know what we're dealing with first."

"What you're dealing with is a missing hiker and his dog," Nell said slowly, cautiously. She didn't follow his logic, but she also didn't want to step on the toes of law enforcement. "What else is there to deal with?"

The two agents traded significant looks again. Hamill took over, explaining quietly, "We have reason to believe Henry's disappearance might be connected to the others we've been investigating."

Nell had almost forgotten. "What happened to the others?"

"We're not sure," Hamill admitted. "We haven't found any bodies yet." Hamill hesitated, looking unsure whether to continue. Nell, meanwhile, fixated on his use of the word  _yet_.

" _Bodies_?  _Yet?_ " Since when did this rescue mission become a recovery mission? Or was it  _ever_  a rescue mission to these two? From the sympathetic, almost pitying expression on Hamill's face and the hard set of Ford's jaw, Nell could tell they believed, wholeheartedly, that Henry was already dead.

"We haven't found  _bodies_ ," Ford said, grudgingly, "But we have found a decent amount of blood."

Nell swayed a bit and grabbed the picnic table with a white-knuckled grip. Hamill, looking started, twitched like he was preparing to catch her should she faint.

Her first thought was an animal attack, but that didn't make any sense. There would be more than just blood left behind, for one thing. And surely other hikers would have reported any animals that posed a significant danger to humans. No animal native to the Grand Canyon could kill half a dozen hikers over the course of a few weeks unnoticed.

No, if the bodies couldn't be found, then that almost certainly meant something intelligent had killed them. Something purposeful that identified hikers who wouldn't be missed, then hid the bodies so they couldn't be found.

It had to be a person.

Nell sank onto the bench of the picnic table, no longer able to stand. She opened her mouth to ask the question, to confirm her train of thought, but all she could manage was a strangled, " _Jesus Christ."_

Henry was probably dead. The agents already thought so, obviously. And if it was a  _person_  killing hikers, instead of an animal or treacherous terrain, that seriously hurt his chances. But there  _was_  a chance. Nell knew the statistics. There was still a chance that Henry was alive—but not for much longer.

Nell gathered what strength she had left and used it to say in a firm voice, "It's barely been 24 hours. Henry could still be alive." The agents traded doubtful looks, and Nell raised her voice. "If there is  _any_  chance he's still alive, isn't it your duty to try and find him?"

Ford shushed her hastily and cast a wary glance around the surrounding campsites. Once satisfied that no one had paid any attention to Nell's minor outburst, he said, fierce but quiet, "Look, we want to find this guy safe and sound as much as you do, alright? But going in unprepared won't help anybody."

"You know the trail," Nell argued, though she kept her voice down this time. "And you must have  _some_  idea who's doing this. How much more prepared can you be?"

"Nell," Hamill said, firmly but gently. "This is our job. We know what we're doing, okay? If Henry is still alive, I promise we'll have him back safe and sound by this time tomorrow. You've just got to trust us."

Nell wanted to trust them. Really, she did. She wanted to believe that they'd bring Henry back alive, and that in a day this would all be a bizarre, worrying nightmare, and she could move on with her vacation, and what little was left of her life.

But Nell was too used to government bureaucracy to believe them. Nothing ever got done in a timely or efficient manner. Maybe the agents were right and Henry was already dead. But on the off chance that he wasn't, he almost certainly would be by the time those agents got around to finding him.

And looking at the confident, self-assured men in suits, Nell knew that nothing she said could convince them to go after Henry now, before it was too late. So she nodded, and she lied.

"Okay. I'll trust you."

Agent Hamill's shoulders visibly relaxed. "Good. Thank you."

The agents left, talking urgently in low voices. Nell watched them wind their way back toward the ranger's station until they disappeared from sight, and then got to work.

First, she dug out her computer. She attached the videos and photos she'd taken over the last week in an email to her family. She hesitated over the 'send' button for a long moment, wondering if it was a good idea to send it before she left the Grand Canyon. But then, if this went very wrong, she might never leave the Grand Canyon at all.

Nell didn't want to die. She wanted very much to live. That's what inspired her to take this extended road trip in the first place—cramming as much living as she could into what little time she had left.

Maybe, if she had her whole life ahead of her, she would trust the agents. If she had a future, she might hesitate to do something as reckless as she was about to do.

But she was going to die soon, one way or another. She might as well do it with a clear conscience, knowing she hadn't just sat around while the kind man who shared his hot dogs with her died a painful death, alone in the woods.

She hit send, and packed her day bag as quickly as she could.

* * *

"You find anything yet?" Dean set the phone on speaker and started the Impala, chucking a roll of bright yellow police tape in the passenger seat.

"Nothing unusual so far, beyond the disappearances." Even over the phone, Dean could practically see the annoyed look on his brother's face. "And no previous patterns like this before, either."

"So it's not a wendigo?" That's what Dean's money had been on, on the drive down. The number of disappearances, all clumped together so closely in remote, rugged terrain had  _wendigo_  written all over it.

"It still might be. The lore isn't clear exactly where they come from. Some sources say they're humans who resort to cannibalism, who then become wendigos, but other sources say wendigos can be created from normal people who become possessed by a 'cannibalistic spirit.'"

"What, like a demon wendigo?" Dean asked, skeptical, as he pulled out of the visitor center parking lot and started winding his way toward the trailhead for the Overlook.

"Not that kind of possession," Sam corrected absently. "But if that  _is_  true, then maybe the first guy who went missing—Dave Carter?"

"Maybe he's our wendigo." Dean grimaced at the mental image of how that might have come about.

"Yeah." Sam sighed. "I'll keep digging, but I don't know how much more I'm gonna get. The National Park Service doesn't exactly keep stellar records on this stuff."

"Well, keep at it and let me know if—" Dean cut off as he turned into the small parking area for the Overlook trailhead. "God damn it!"

"What? What's going on?"

"That friggin' Nell chick, is what's going on. Her car's here at the trailhead." Dean shot out of the car, phone in hand, and jogged over to peer in the window. "It's empty. She must have gone ahead. Come on, lady, you couldn't wait two hours?!"

There was a clatter and a rustle at the other end of the line. "We've gotta go after her."

"Obviously we've gotta go after her, but I don't have to  _like it_ ," Dean barked angrily, storming back towards the Impala. "Hang tight at the lodge, I'm coming to pick you up."

* * *

There was something wrong about just how beautiful the trail was. The birds sang, squirrels ran about in the undergrowth, and from the path Nell could see breathtaking glimpses on the vast orange-gold canyon. It didn't fit with the cold fear and worry writhing in Nell's gut. It was like the world didn't even know what might have happened, might  _be_  happening, to Henry at this very moment. Or worse, it didn't care.

Nell trekked on with difficulty. She had packed as much water as she could carry, some protein bars, and a first aid kit, just in case she found Henry. In total the pack couldn't have weighed more than five pounds, but to Nell's weak, tired body it might as well have been fifty. Climbing up the gently sloping path felt more like climbing a steep wall, and every few minutes Nell had to stop to catch her breath or drink some water.

But she kept on. It took her nearly 35 minutes just to walk the first mile, and another 20 to walk another half mile. It was just as Nell stopped once again to sip feebly at some water that she finally saw something out of the corner of her eye.

A crow. Big, and black, and tearing at something with golden-brown fur just off the path ahead. Nell's first thought was a dead mule deer, but the carcass was too small, even for a baby. And then, with dread, she remembered where she'd last seen that particular shade of golden-brown.

Roxie.

Nell walked forward slowly, dreading the sight of the dead dog. But she had to look. She waved the crow away with frantic arms, and the crow cawed at her irritably, but backed off to a nearby tree, watching attentively as Nell approached his meal.

The dog lay completely still. Other than where the crow had dug at her, Roxie's body had no visible wounds. Her collar was still in place, her leash next to her, as if Henry has simply dropped it. But her chest did not rise and fall, and her neck stuck out at an odd angle. Broken.

A sob rose in Nell's throat, but she couldn't afford it. She swallowed it back, heaved a rattling breath, and swiped at her eyes to collect herself. She turned purposefully away from Roxie's body and set out looking for Henry.

Nell combed the area around the path, walking forward and back and peering around trees, but there was no sign of him. Nell wasn't sure whether that was a good sign or not. Had someone killed Roxie, causing Henry to run off? Or had someone attacked Henry and been forced to deal with Roxie when she came to her owner's defense? With the scattered leaves on the path, Nell couldn't begin to guess what had happened. There would be no footprints, no clues either way.

She didn't know how long she searched, eyes darting quickly and heart pounding. She was too wary of becoming lost to step too far off the path, but there was no sign of Henry anywhere on it. She didn't even consider going further down the trail—if something had happened, it surely would have happened here. And if Henry had run, he would have run back, not forward. Right?

Nell stopped at the edge of the trail and gazed out into the sparse trees, uncertain. He could have run off the trail, she supposed, if he was really panicked. But with the scattered brush all around, there was no way to tell which direction he might have gone.

It was in this moment of tense contemplation that Nell heard the noises. Not the quick, harried dart of a squirrel through the underbrush or the knocking of a branch in the wind, but heavy, booted footsteps through the leaves.

Nell's heart stuttered. Was it Henry? Henry's maybe-attacker? Or just another hiker? Panicked, Nell stepped off the trail and next to a tree, out of sight of the trail's bend, so she could see who approached without being seen. She held her breath as the tromping footsteps grew closer, closer…

It was the agents. Nell couldn't contain a sigh of relief, though she regretted it immediately when both men jumped and turned on her with—

"Are those  _flamethrowers_?" She could understand a gun, for all that she wouldn't want one pointed at her, but she did not see the logic of bringing flamethrowers into a wooded area like this. And what sort of law enforcement had flamethrowers, anyway?

Both agents dropped the nozzles they'd aimed at her. Agent Ford scowled. "What the hell do you think you're doing out here? We said we'd handle it!"

"Yeah, I didn't believe you," Nell admitted frankly.

Ford looked ready to chew her out some more, but Hamill cut him off. "Did you find anything?"

Nell winced and swallowed, then nodded in the direction of Roxie's body. Hamill's brow furrowed and he walked slowly over to investigate the dog's still form. After one last harsh look at Nell, Ford followed him.

* * *

"What have you got?"

Sam maintained his faux-professional stoicism, but Dean could read his brother as well as always: he was tense, and worried. Sam gestured at the dog's still form. "Notice anything unusual?"

Dean examined the dog with the cool detachment of someone far too used to seeing dead bodies. It was still, unbreathing, and though it looked stiff, it hadn't been dead long enough to develop any strong odors. A bit of flesh had been plucked away, seemingly by some sort of carrion bird, but otherwise its glossy coat was undamaged. The dog could have been alive, if it wasn't so unnaturally still, and its neck didn't twist at an odd angle.

Dean's eyes fixated on the neck, frowning. Voice pitched low so Nell wouldn't overhear, he asked, "You ever known a wendigo to snap a neck instead of chowing down?"

Sam shook his head, thoughtful. "They usually don't go after animals at all, though. Only humans. Maybe Roxie was just in the way?"

"I don't like it," Dean said bluntly, standing up from his crouch. "I want us out of these woods, now."

"Dean, wait." Sam stood quickly and darted a glance back at Nell, who stood watching them warily form a good distance away. Lowering his voice, Sam continued, "I think we're pretty close to that cave."

Dean thought he could see where his brother was going with this, and didn't care for it. "So?"

Sam suppressed a frustrated sigh. "You know wendigos like to keep their prey alive. Henry might still be out there. Maybe even some of the other hikers, too."

"And what, you want to check it out with our tagalong?" Dean asked harshly, not bothering to disguise his anger as he jabbed a finger in Nell's direction. "Are you crazy?"

"Yeah, I do," Sam pressed insistently. "Our only other options are to make her wait here,  _alone_ , or to leave and come back tomorrow. We don't have time to walk her out and come back, Dean—if we don't go now, we'll lose the daylight."

Dean considered that. He didn't like any of those options, really, and he did  _not_  want Nell trailing behind them and asking uncomfortable questions, but his brother was right. If it was a wendigo, then Henry and some of the other hikers might still be alive—for now.

"Dammit." Dean turned and stalked over to Nell, who eyed him warily. "Okay, here's what's gonna happen.  _We_  are gonna find that cave we saw on your map.  _You_  are going to come with us. You will stay between us at all times, and you'll do  _exactly_ what I say, no matter what happens, no matter what you see. Got it?"

Nell hesitated, eyes darting from Dean to Sam and back again. Finally she nodded. "Got it."

"Good," Dean said, voice almost a growl. "You better not be lying this time."

He turned, tromping off the trail and into the brush. Nell shot Sam an uncertain look, and he offered her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Still looking wary, Nell adjusted her backpack and followed after Dean. Sam fell in behind her, and they walked.

It was tense. Dean's shoulders were taut with tension as he took point, watching carefully for any movement in the trees. Sam, too, kept a watchful eye, not just on the woods, but on his brother and Nell. The woman tensed at every small rustle of leaves or snapping of twigs. Sam couldn't tell if it was the shadows of the forest or her own nerves, but Nell looked almost sickly pale.

Dean smelled it before he saw it. Even before he was able to make out a dark opening in the rock wall, he caught the familiar stench on the air. Blood, and death.

Dean stopped at the treeline and turned solemn eyes on his brother and their tagalong, considering. The girl looked like a strong breeze would knock her over, so Dean wasn't about to hand her a gun, but he didn't want her defenseless, either. He reached into his boot and withdrew a long knife, presenting it to her hilt-first.

Nell eyed it, and then him, with disbelief. "Take it," Dean insisted. "Anything runs at you, stab first and ask questions later, alright?"

Nell's brow furrowed, and she opened her mouth—to question Dean's slip of any _thing_  rather than any _one_ , maybe—but seemed to reconsider. She shut her mouth and took the knife in a white-knuckled grip, nodding.

"Good." Dean eyed his brother, who had watched the exchange in silence, and hoisted his flamethrower into a ready position. "You ready?" Sam nodded. "Then let's go."

Together, they crept toward the mouth of the cave, as quiet as possible on crunching leaves. Then, slowly, cautiously, they entered.

It took a few moments for their eyes to adjust to the darkness. Though the passage was narrow, the cave was much deeper than one might have guessed from the small marking on the map. They could only see maybe twenty yards before it became too dark to see. But just before the light completely disappeared, there was something… a dark shape crumpled on the floor. Not rock. Something else.

"Dean." Sam rushed forward, kneeling down to the huddled form. Dean hovered behind him, flamethrower at the ready, eyes darting around the darkness.

"Henry," Nell breathed in recognition as Sam propped the prone figure upright. He was out cold, and covered in dirt and brush, like he'd been dragged through the woods. His hands and feet were bound with hiking rope, and dark blood crusted on his shirt.

"Henry?" Sam tried at Nell's confirmation. "Henry, come on, wake up."

"He still got a pulse?" Dean's voice was practical and gruff. Nell held her breath while Sam reached up to Henry's neck to check. Almost immediately Sam cursed. "He's gone?"

"No, he's still got a faint pulse—Dean,  _vampires._ "

* * *

" _Vampires?_ " Nell repeated, disbelieving. Agent Ford shot his partner an annoyed look.

What the hell had Nell gotten herself into? Was that supposed to be a code name for some sort of murderous cult, or did these two seriously  _believe_ in vampires?

Now that Nell thought about it, despite the official-looking badges they'd flashed, neither of the agents had even been specific about what sort of agency they were supposedly working for in the first place. And then there was the fact that they were carrying  _flamethrowers_.

There was not a small possibility that these two were nut jobs. But they had found Henry, who was alive, if badly injured. As long as they didn't turn out to be the sickos who'd done this to Henry and the other hikers in the first place, Nell would resist the urge to run as fast as possible back towards the trail and the safety of camp.

"Okay, new plan," Agent Ford said, slinging his flamethrower across his back and withdrawing another long knife from his boot. Hamill produced a smaller one, hastily cutting through the ropes binding Henry."We get him up, get back to the car, get the big knives, and get back before night falls."

Hamill nodded absently, gently slapping Henry's face a few times. Finally Henry let out a pained groan, blinking rapidly, and Nell sighed in relief. Henry, meanwhile, flinched back from the sight of Agent Hamill looming over him, bringing his hands up defensively, as if anticipating a blow.

"Hey, it's okay. It's okay, we're here to help," Hamill said lowly, soft and reassuring. Henry slowly lowered his hands, staring. "You think you can walk?"

Henry hesitated, but nodded, slowly levering himself up using the wall of the cave. He stumbled some, and Hamill looped his arm over his shoulder for support. Slowly, they limped out into the sunlight, Ford casting wary glances into the shadows of the cave until they were safely in the bright afternoon sunshine.

Once in the light, Henry squinted at Hamill, then Ford, then finally Nell, eyes finally lighting up in recognition. When he spoke his voice was hoarse. "Nell? How did you?..." He trailed off, looking back at Hamill. "And who are you?"

"My name is Agent Hamill, and that's Agent Ford," Hamill said, nodding towards Ford. "Nell told us you went missing and where we might find you. We're gonna get you out safe."

For a long moment Henry simply stared between them, still a little disbelieving. Finally he nodded, sagging a little against Agent Hamill's side. "Okay."

They shuffled through the trees and back towards the path as quickly as possible. Hamill and Henry went first, setting the pace, followed by Nell and then finally Agent Ford, who watched the treeline behind them warily, knuckles white on the hilt of his knife.

After the first minute of walking, Ford said urgently, "Okay, Henry, I need you to think. How many of them were there? The things that attacked you?"

Things, not people, Nell noted uneasily. But Henry didn't correct him. In fact, he shuddered against Sam's shoulder. "I don't know," Henry breathed, almost too quiet to hear over the sound of the leaves crunching beneath their feet. "It was so dark, I couldn't see…" Henry's left arm, the one not draped over Sam's shoulder, made an aborted motion towards his neck. "This is gonna sound crazy, but they  _drank my blood_."

Nell stumbled a little on a root, distracted by that. Ford shot her a scolding look, as if to say that there was a time and place to be shocked about maniacs drinking the blood of hikers in the Grand Canyon, and it wasn't while they were still on this trail. Nell rather agreed, and picked up her pace as much as she was able.

"Did they give you anything to drink?" Ford asked, voice oddly distant.

"What?" Henry's steps faltered for just a moment, but he shook his head before Ford could repeat the question."No. They were a little busy drinking my blood. Did I mention they  _drank_ my  _blood_?"

"Here." Hamill fumbled in his shirt pocket for a moment, retrieving a silver flask. Henry made no move to take it, and while Nell couldn't see his face, the rasping breath he rattled out sounded skeptical. "It's water," Hamill clarified, almost embarrassed.

Henry hesitated, but took the flask with a murmur of thanks. He downed it quickly, and soon after Nell watched as he leaned more and more on Hamill for support, his head sagging and feet dragging on the ground.

Ford noticed it, too, and from the tension around his eyes he wasn't pleased. "How much further?" He asked his partner.

Hamill glanced back, looking resigned. "Another half hour, maybe, if we can keep up this pace."

As if on cue, Henry stumbled a little. Ad Hamill steadied him, he admitted, "I don't know if I can."

"You will, 'cause you have to," Ford ordered, voice harsh but quiet. "The thing, or  _things_ , that got you are still out there. We're lucky they're not chasing us now." Ford darted a glance behind them at the trees, as if concerned that his words would summon whatever pursuers he was worried about. "We  _cannot_ still be in these woods at sun down."

"He's lost a lot of blood, Dean. It's amazing he's still awake, let alone walking," Hamill defended quietly. Ford—first name Dean, apparently—jogged forward to get a better look at Henry's situation. Nell followed, wincing at Henry's paper-white face even as Ford cursed.

"Here, you take this." Ford thrust the long knife he'd been clutching since the cave into Hamill's hands. "You, take this, but don't touch it." Ford took off his flamethrower and handed it to Nell, who very reluctantly slung the strap across her body. That done, Ford dropped to a kneeling crouch on the ground, speaking to Henry over his shoulder. "You, hop on."

Henry blinked tiredly at him. "You joking, son?"

"Do I look like I'm goddamn joking?" Ford bit out. Henry mutely shook his head, and Nell privately agreed that no, the angry man with the flamethrower and the big knives did not look like was was goddamn joking. "Shut up and hop on."

They made better time once Ford was carrying Henry. No more than twenty minutes later, they hustled down the last few feet of the path, emerging from the trees as the sky turned sunset orange.

Hamill rushed immediately for the trunk of the Impala parked near the trailhead, but Nell followed Ford as he headed straight for her Outback. "Get that door open," her ordered, and Nell hurried to comply, opening the passenger door as Ford manhandled the now-unconscious Henry into the seat. "Head back to the ranger station and get him taken care of."

"Right." Nell hesitated. "What about you?"

"We're going back in." Ford looked past her, and Nell turned to see Hamill approaching with two long, gleaming machetes. He handed the spare to Ford handle-first, eyes dark. Nell stared, wide-eyed.

"What the hell are those for."

Nell meant it to be an incredulous demand, but instead it came out breathless and scared and disbelieving. She was exhausted and in pain, and a large part of her hoped this whole bizarre ordeal was a fever dream, and she'd wake up soon in her little teardrop camper and be able to tell Henry all about it over coffee while she scratched Roxie behind the ears.

Ford turned back to her, eyes cold and serious. Nell inched back, pressing against her car to put more distance between her and his knife. "Listen to me. The…  _person_ , or people who did this to Henry? They're still out there. We have to go after them,  _now_ , before they realize he's gone and come after  _us_." He paused, eyes darting across her face, as if making sure she was following his logic. "And you have to take care of Henry. Drive back to the ranger station as fast as you can and get him help. Got it?"

"Got it," Nell forced out. She shrugged off the flamethrower and slung her backpack off one shoulder, digging for her car keys past water bottles and protein bars. With a triumphant noise in the back of her throat, Nell seized the keys and re-zipped her bag.

But the rustling didn't stop when her searching did. Warily, Nell turned to the path the four of them had just vacated. The path no other hikers had taken today. The path where rapid, rustling footsteps were getting louder and louder as they approached.

Ford cursed. "Sam!" Hamill, or Sam, or whoever he was, ran to cover the entrance to the trail, knife raised. Ford followed after him, shouting over his shoulder at Nell to, "Go,  _now_!"

Nell didn't need telling twice. She rounded the car jumped in, wincing a little as her discarded backpack jostled pale, unconscious Henry. She jammed the key into the ignition. The engine roared to life just as two figures hurtled out of the woods at Sam and Dean, moving so fast they nearly blurred.

"Holy shit." Nell didn't allow her surprise to paralyze her, slamming the car into drive and peeling away, completely disregarding the posted speed limit. In the rearview mirror, Nell saw Hamill get thrown into a tree like he weighed no more than a sack of potatoes, while Ford gave a mighty swing of his massive knife. One of the assailant's heads went flying. "Holy shit!"

"Language." Henry, conscious once again, groaned in the passenger seat, eyes fluttering.

Nell's eyes darted between him and the road, her shoulders sagging in relief. "Thank god, you're alright." Nell jerked the wheel, pulling into the parking lot in front of the ranger's station and stopping the car. "Hold tight, I'm going to get help."

Nell's left hand reached for the door handle, but she was stopped from leaving when Henry's hand closed over her right wrist like a vice. His grip was bruising, and Nell flinched involuntarily, trying unsuccessfully to pull her hand away. "Henry, I'm not leaving—I'll be right back with help, I promise."

"I don't need help."

For the first time since he woke, Nell got a good look at Henry's eyes. They were painful just to look at, red and ruddy, like the iris had spilled over into the white. The sight of them shocked Nell into silence for a moment before her brain caught up. "Of course you do," she said slowly, wondering if the shock of everything had disoriented him, "you're covered in blood. And have you seen your  _eyes_?" Nell paused, unsure. "Can you even  _see_ right now?"

"Yes," Henry said, unsettlingly calm. "More clearly than ever." His grip on her hand grew even tighter. Gritting her teeth, Nell twisted her hand, painfully wrenching her arm from his grip and pressing back against the driver's side door, nearly falling out of the car in her haste. But then Henry was out of the car, too, and behind her.

His left hand covered her mouth. His right arm pressed against her throat. He began to drag her backwards, away from the ranger station and back towards the treeline. For a few steps Nell stumbled backwards, shock and momentum pulling her along, before her fight-or-flight instincts finally kicked in. Praying the half-forgotten maneuver from a college self-defense course was enough to take down a man nearly twice her weight, Nell clutched the arm around her neck as hard as she could, planted her feet, twisted, and bowed.

Success. Part momentum, part surprise, Henry toppled to the ground with wide eyes, releasing her neck. Nell backpedaled away immediately, then turned to run to the safety of the ranger station.

She didn't make it.

Henry was fast, too fast. He caught her in a second, tackling her to the ground and dragging her back to the shaded area of the wood. Nell struggled, but now Henry was wary of letting her get hold of him, and he pinned her carefully into the bed of dirt and pine needles. He bent down, ruddy eyes fastened on her neck, and inhaled deeply. He sighed contentedly and licked his lips, looking at Nell's pulsepoint like it was a freshly made pie.

Hadn't he lost a lot of blood? Just minutes ago he was unconscious, hardly able to stand on his own two feet, and now Henry was sprinting and tackling like a star quarterback, not a dangerously injured Baby Boomer.

Struggling was useless, so instead Nell screamed, as high and loud as she could manage. Henry jerked back in shock for just a second, hissing through his teeth, before he clamped a hand over her mouth the muffle the noise. " _Ow_." Glancing back warily, Henry dragged Nell further into the trees, until the parking lot and the ranger station were no longer in sight. Nell kicked and writhed on the ground, trying to get loose from his hold, or even just dislodge his hand so she could try to scream again, but his grip was too strong. She was dragged back through the leaves, panicking more and more as the safety of the parking lot shrank away.

"Shhh…" Henry shushed her. His horrible eyes were bright and crazed, and he was drawing in deep lungfuls of air, eyes wandering over Nell with obsessive attention. Nell glared, jaw working in an attempt to bite or gnaw at the hand clamped over her mouth. Henry shook his head a little, as if to clear it, then re-focused and nodded to himself. "I can't wait any longer."

Pressing his left hand firmly against Nell's mouth, Henry pinned Nell to the forest floor, kneeling on her legs to prevent her from struggling away. He leaned forward, gruesome eyes half-lidded, and opened his mouth.

Time stopped. Slowly, with an odd, quiet  _squelch_ , Henry grew a whole new set of teeth. They descended over his normal ones, sharp and jagged and deadly, like some kind of demented shark. They crowded his mouth, pushing his lips back in a horrible grimace of a smile. Henry bent closer, and Nell pressed back into the dirt in an attempt to put as much distance between her neck and those awful, awful teeth.

In the back of her mind, Agent Hamill's words from earlier clanged like church bells.  _Dean, vampires._

Then, pain.

Nell screamed against Henry's hand as he tore into her neck. Hot blood gushed, soaking her clothes and the leaves on the forest floor. The pain was unlike anything she'd ever felt, and she tried desperately to buck or roll Henry off, hands scratching and scrabbling at any part of him she could reach, but he wouldn't budge. She could feel Henry's dagger-teeth embedded in her neck, feel him lap up the blood that oozed out with every pump of her heart. Henry slurped as he drank,  _drank her blood—_

 _They drank my blood_ , Henry had said.  _Did they give you anything to drink? Dean, vampires._

Voices echoed in Nell's mind, but not loud enough to drown out the wet gulping sounds as Henry sucked and drank her life away.

It didn't take long for Nell's movements to grow sluggish. It would have been near impossible to toss him off under normal circumstances, but now, with Henry's mania and her own rapid blood loss, there was no chance. Defeated, Nell rested her head on the forest floor and looked at the orange and purple splashes of evening sky she could see through the tops of the trees.

She was going to die. She had made her peace with death already, months ago, but as her vision turned gray at the edges, she couldn't help being disappointed. This wasn't the way she'd intended to go. She closed her eyes, resigned.

And then Henry was gone. Nell blinked at the lack of weight pinning her down, turning her head to see Dean or Agent Ford or whoever he really was tackling Henry to the ground. Henry was snarling like a rabid animal, but Dean didn't hesitate, raising his massive knife and swinging it down. A wet squelch sounded through the trees, and Henry's head rolled.

It was kind of anticlimactic, Nell thought, sighing. She turned her eyes back to the sky. No sense missing her last sunset.

"Nell!" Hamill's face—or was it Sam's?—hovered over her, eyes wide as he pressed his hands to the still-weeping wound at her neck. His voice seemed far away, even delayed, as if the audio and video in Nell's view on reality had gone out of sync.

The pain had mostly faded, now, replaced by a sort of numb, cold feeling. It was relaxing, in a way, though Sam's panicked face and rushed words were kind of killing the mood. Nell let her eyes flutter shut, tuning him out. Maybe if she let herself drift, dying would be just like falling asleep. That wouldn't be so bad, she thought…

A firm pressure squeezed her face. A solid slap the the left side of her face, then the right. She thought about opening her eyes, but what was the point? She sighed one last time, then let herself drift away.


	2. Chapter 2

"Dean, she's dying."

Dean cursed, kicking Henry's corpse in the side. "Shouldn't have taken his word for it. Should've done a fang check."

Sam stared at his brother, brow furrowed. "Dean, she's  _dying_." His words were like an admonishment. Dean rolled his shoulders, jaw tight.

"Yes, Sam, I can see that. And that's on us, I know that. But she won't survive a trip to the hospital." Dean paused, stare growing more intense, and then said his next words carefully, deliberately. "She would need an  _angel_ to save her."

Sam made an impatient noise in the back of his throat. "Well Cas is human now, and also  _not here_. Even if there  _were_ any angels around, I doubt we're on their nice list right now."

Dean's face fell a little and his shoulders slumped. "I don't know what else to tell you, Sammy."

Sam glanced around the clearing desperately, gaze landing on Henry's severed head and lifeless eyes. He stared for a moment, lips pursed in thought. "I have an idea. But I don't think you're gonna like it."

Dean followed Sam's gaze to Henry's head. It took him a moment to follow his brother's train of thought. "No. No way, we're not making  _another_  vampire."

"Just temporarily!" Sam stood, leaving Nell on the ground and walking over to Henry's corpse. "We feed her some blood now to start the change, heal her up, then take her back to the bunker and give her the cure before she drinks any blood."

"Oh, so you don't just want to make a new vampire. You want to take her to our secret hideout, too!"

"She was our responsibility, Dean."

"So is Kevin," Dean shot back. "You're seriously going to bring a baby vampire to the bunker while he's there? It's too dangerous."

"No more dangerous than being alone in the bunker with Crowley!" Sam shook his head. "We don't have time for this. She's dying, and if this could save her, we owe it to her to try."

Dean crossed his arms, but didn't move to stop Sam as he dragged Henry's corpse over to Nell's body and fed her the blood of her fellow camper turned near-killer.

* * *

Nell did not anticipate waking up.

The first thing she felt was a sense of wrongness. It took a moment for her to place that the wrongness was that she  _felt_  anything at all.

Nell was not a religious woman. She had obediently attended church with her parents through high school to avoid arguments with her mother, but the services had never resonated with her. As a child she had never felt that there was a higher power listening to her prayers, and over time she gave up on the idea that there was any sort of higher power at all. She didn't believe in God, or heaven, or any sort of an afterlife.

Death was just death. Game over. Worm food. Which is why Nell was so disoriented at having a sense of self when she was 99% sure she bled to death on the forest floor after Henry tore her throat out.

But this didn't seem like any afterlife Nell had ever heard of. It was dark, and stuffy, and smelled vaguely of gasoline. Come to think of it… Nell tried to move. She encountered two problems. The first was that the cramped space was too small to stretch out. The second, and much more concerning issue, was that her hands and feet were bound in what felt like rope.

She was in a fucking trunk. She was alive, in a fucking trunk.

Maybe she'd never been hurt at all. Maybe Henry had slipped something into her beer or served her a bad hot dog and everything else she remembered was just a weird, vivid dream. There was really no way for her to tell, so she decided to set aside the mystery of how she was alive until she found out the how and why of the trunk.

Whatever car she was in was still in motion. Though her hands and feet were tied, she had not been gagged. And so, she made a ruckus.

She shouted and screamed and flailed, banging against the trunk as much as possible. It was an exhausting effort, and after some time she gave up pounding on the lid of the trunk and resigned herself to half-hearted shouting.

"LET ME OUT!"

"Please let me out?"

"If this is some kind of Hell, it's weird and underwhelming!"

After a while Nell's mouth was dry, her throat sore, and there'd been no sign that whoever was driving the car had heard any of her protests. Exhausted, Nell allowed herself to be lulled to sleep by the warm, stale air of the trunk and the gentle rocking motion of the car.

She woke when the car halted. Two loud thunks marked the opening and closing of car doors, and Nell did her best to roll so she was facing the trunk's lid as footsteps rounded the car. Her heart raced. The trunk clicked open, and Nell blinked rapidly at the two figures silhouetted in the light. It took a few seconds of blinking for her eyes to adjust.

"So I  _wasn't_ roofied." Not only were Sam and Dean proof, but in the light Nell could see the dark blood that had dried on her shirt. It was a shame, too. She'd liked this shirt.

Sam had the decency to look a bit shamefaced about keeping a woman in his trunk. Dean didn't blink, looking irritated—though thankfully the irritation seemed to be directed towards Sam rather than Nell.

"'Fraid not," Dean said. Sam, gently and with exaggerated motions so as not to startle Nell, lifted her out of the trunk, propping her so she could sit on the edge. Nell allowed it without struggle, though she glared to let him know just how little she appreciated the mode of transport. "Your buddy Henry really did try to rip your throat out."

He said it in a serious, final-sounding tone, and Nell remembered that just before she'd passed out from blood loss she'd seen one of them chop Henry's head off with a huge knife.

"You're not going to lop my head off too, are you?" Nell asked warily, glancing between the two. "Or were you hoping I'd bleed out in your trunk?"

"We don't wanna hurt you," Sam reassured her hastily. "We're trying to help, I swear."

The puppy dog eyes were less convincing when Nell had seen the guy take another guy's head off with one swing. Unimpressed, Nell said, "Like you helped Henry."

"No time to ease her into it, Sammy." Dean said shortly, patting Sam on the shoulder. "It wasn't some killer that got Henry, it was a nest of vampires. We killed the vamps, but not before they turned Henry. You remember that? Nasty, pointy teeth? Drank your blood?"

Nell was quiet. On the one hand, she was a staunch atheist. She didn't believe in religion, superstition, or magic of any kind. There was no such thing as ghosts or goblins or monsters under the bed. Most of what people declared supernatural mysteries could be explained by simple science or human psychology.

On the other hand, she had  _seen_  Henry grow teeth. Had  _felt_ him rip into her neck with those teeth. Nell reached up to her neck tentatively, anticipating a raw, angry wound. Instead there was smooth skin, though it was crusted with dried blood.

"It's gone." Nell's brow furrowed, confused, and she looked back to Dean. "I remember the teeth, and the blood, so where…" There was no way her neck could have healed on its own in the few hours she'd been locked in their trunk. Speaking of, "Also, I was bleeding out on the forest floor. I thought I was going to die—why did I wake up in your  _fucking trunk_ , and not a hospital bed?"

Dean gave Sam a hard look. "You tell her."

Sam sighed, shoulders sagging a little. He looked guilty, and Nell frowned before he even started talking. "Look, Nell, Henry… he got you good." Sam's voice was gentle and quiet, as if he could control the violence of Nell's reaction by exuding excess calm. "You lost a lot of blood. You wouldn't have made it to a hospital." Nell nodded, impatient. She had thought she was going to die, after all. "So, we—" Dean cleared his throat pointedly. "Okay,  _I_  couldn't just let you die if there was a way to save you. So I fed you a little bit of Henry's blood, to turn you." Sam rushed out the rest of his words as if he was afraid Nell would interrupt to start yelling at him. "Just enough to heal you! There's a cure we can make that'll make you human again. Just give us a few days, and this'll all just be a bad dream."

"Not convinced it isn't one." Nell tilted her head up to the sky, pondering. While she knew that a dying brain could manifest some weird illusions and hallucinations, she always figured it would be more along the lines of her grandmother welcoming her into the clouds. "If I were a vampire, wouldn't the sun hurt me?" The light was warmer than she'd expect, and so bright it nearly hurt her eyes, but she figured she still needed time to adjust from the darkness of the trunk.

"You're still turning," Dean said shortly. "And sun's not actually deadly to vampires, anyway. More like a really bad sunburn."

Nell shook her head, unable to believe the story from the almost-certainly-not-agents. It was true that Henry had attacked her, and she had indeed seen him grow a whole new set of teeth right before he feasted on her blood. "Vampires exist" did seem to explain pretty much all the questions she could come up with about the events of the last day or so, but just because it  _might_  explain things didn't mean it was the  _right_ explanation.

"Speaking of sunburn..." Sam nodded over Nell's shoulder. She'd been facing away from it before, but they were parked in front of an odd door built into the side of a leaf-strewn dirt slope near the road. If she'd passed it while driving, she might have thought it was a maintenance hatch or some sort of old bomb shelter. "We should get her inside."

"Right." Dean nodded, swiftly hoisting Nell into a fireman's carry. Nell's breath escaped her in a whoosh as his shoulder dug into her stomach, but her hands and feet were still bound, so she couldn't struggle much. "To the dungeon."

"Wait, what?" Nell had been prepared to complain about the ropes, but now she was much,  _much_  more worried about this 'dungeon'. What kind of person has a dungeon?

"Come on, Dean, is that really necessary?" Sam tried to reason as he opened the door in the side of the slope. "There's tons of empty rooms."

"Nuh-uh, no way. Bad enough we're bringing in a baby vampire while Kevin is here." Dean kicked the door closed behind him. Nell watched with dismay as it slammed shut. "What if she vamps out and slips the ropes before we get her the cure? No, she's going in the dungeon, inside the wards, until she's 100% human again."

"Seriously? Dean, Crowley's in there." Nell twitched. So not only did they have a dungeon, they already had someone locked up in it.

"Warded circle's big enough for the two of them, Sammy." Dean tromped down a set of steps and walked down a narrow hallway. Nell couldn't get a good look, though, with her head at Dean's lower back and her hair falling around her face.

"But it's  _Crowley_."

"If my opinion matters at all," Nell tried, bolstered a bit that, at least in this, Sam seemed to be on her side, "I'd really like to  _not_ be put in a dungeon."

"It doesn't," Dean said simply. "This isn't up for discussion." Dean re-positioned Nell on his shoulder, and Nell could hear the opening and closing of a door, and then what sounded like a heavy sliding door and the click of a light switch.

"Moose! Squirrel!" The voice that greeted them was sardonic, gravelly, and British. Nell guessed that this must be the Crowley person Sam was so wary of. "And I see you've brought a guest."

Dean ignored Crowley entirely. "Get a chair and some rope, Sam." Sam sighed heavily, but Nell heard his footsteps and rummaging as he obeyed the order.

"Ooh, kinky." Crowley's voice was thick with dark humor. Nell couldn't help wondering how he could sound so teasing and self-assured while locked in a dungeon. "Careful, Squirrel, I might get jealous."

"Shut up, Crowley." Dean walked forward and deposited Nell in the chair, then set to tying her up securely before she had the presence of mind to try to wiggle free.

Sighing, Nell took in the room: vast, concrete, and largely bare. There was some sort of locker or storage closet on one of the side walls and some odd, ritualistic-looking markings on the floor. The only furniture, other than the chair she was currently being tied to, was a metal table sitting just in front of her, and one other chair, which was occupied by a dark-haired man in a sharp suit—presumably Crowley. His hands and feet were shackled with metal chains, and his neck was secured to the back of his chair with a thick metal collar which was engraved with more occultish symbols like those on the floor. As she took in her surroundings, Crowley watched her with interest, and when she turned to look at him he smiled.

"A vampire? Boys, you shouldn't have." Crowley gestured at air with his bound hands, chains clanking. "I don't have anything to give you in return."

"Shut up, Crowley," Dean repeated in a growl, cinching the ropes around Nell's torso tight.

"I'm not a vampire," Nell protested, though only halfheartedly. She didn't think anyone in this room would believe her. Crazy as it was, she wasn't sure she entirely believed it, herself.

Crowley's dark eyes scanned her face, her neck, and her bloodied shirt before fixing back on her face. "Maybe not yet," he shrugged carelessly. "But you're getting there. I'm curious, boys—I could have sworn your position on vampires was strictly pro-decapitation."

Sam crouched down in front of Nell's chair, looking apologetic. "Look, I'm sorry about all of this. But I swear, we'll give you the cure and you'll be out of here in no time."

If Nell had been in her right mind, she would have screamed and fought. Surely, Sam and Dean and even this Crowley person were insane, to believe in vampires, and she should be doing everything in her power to escape them and whatever they might do to her in their mad conviction that she was turning into some sort of undead creature.

But maybe the madness was catching, because no matter how hard she tried, Nell couldn't quite dismiss the notion. Couldn't forget the wet sound of shifting bones as Henry grew a new set of teeth, or the pain as he sank those teeth into her mysteriously-healed neck.

"How do I know you're telling the truth?" Nell asked finally, voice soft and tired. "How can I be sure any of this is even real, and not some horrible dream?"

Sam hesitated, looking unsure what to say to reassure her—or perhaps unsure if he even should. At his silence, Crowley said silkily, "You couldn't dream me up, darling."

Dean made a noise of irritation in the back of his throat, though at whom Nell wasn't entirely sure. "You want proof?" Dean loudly rummaged in the room's storage locker, coming back with a mirror and a long metal instrument. "I'll give you proof." He sat on the table in front of her and held up a mirror.

Nell grimaced at her reflection. Her curls were matted and limp from her time in the car's trunk, and her face and neck were still crusted with dark, dried blood. But that wasn't the most startling thing.

"My eyes…" At first she thought her eyes were simply bloodshot, but with a jolt she realized that something was horribly wrong with them. They looked like Henry's had—darker than their usual pale blue, ruddier, and somehow overflowing from her iris into the whites of her eyes. They didn't  _feel_  painful, but they looked horribly inflamed.

"Henry's eyes looked just like that, didn't they?" Dean's tone was unsympathetic, like he already knew the answer. "And then there's this." Holding the mirror in his left hand, he took the metal instrument in his right and brought it towards Nell's face. She tried to jerk away, but her motion was limited, and Dean stuck the instrument in her mouth, pulling her upper lip up and away from her teeth.

Nell felt something shift in her mouth, like the flexing of some muscle she'd never known she had. She looked away from Dean's hardened face and back to the mirror. Wide-eyed, she took in the sight of the sharp, jagged teeth that now filled her mouth, just like the ones Henry had grown before her eyes. Disbelieving, she ran her tongue along the teeth.

Sharp. Real.

"Holy shit."

"Yeah, holy shit," Dean repeated, tucking away the mirror and the metal instrument. Nell felt the extremely bizarre sensation of the sharp teeth retracting. "Now we're gonna go make a cure. You'll be in for a rough couple of days, but when it's done you'll be alive and human again. So just sit tight, and ignore anything this asshat says." He jerked his thumb at Crowley, who clutched his heart in mock-offense with a rattle of chains.

Nell ran her tongue over her human teeth in wonder, glancing between Dean and Crowley. "Is he a vampire, too?"

"He's a demon."

Nell blinked at Dean, but his face was dead serious. "You're joking, right?"

Dean hopped off the table with a shrug. "I'm not gonna sit around trying to convince you."

Sam slowly stood, looking at Nell earnestly. "He  _is_  a demon, and he lies and manipulates people. Just… don't let him get to you. We'll be back soon." Sam patted her on the shoulder, probably trying to be reassuring, and he and Dean left, closing the door behind them.

Nell was left with Crowley, who watched her with undisguised interest. "What's your name, darling?"

Nell's lips twisted. On the one hand, Sam and Dean had told her not to listen to this guy. On the other hand, Sam and Dean had also nearly gotten her killed, shoved her in a trunk, tied her up, and locked her in a dungeon.

"Nell."

Crowley leaned back in his chair, smugly satisfied at her response. "Well, then, Nell. How does a lovely lady such as yourself wind up in the Winchesters' dungeon with the likes of me?"

Nell considered the question for a moment. Just where  _had_  everything gone off the rails? If she had to pinpoint a cause, it was her decision to go after Henry in the first place. "Foolish heroics, I guess. Although," Nell amended, "if those two hadn't come investigating I'd have just reported Henry missing, and none of this would have happened…"

"When in doubt, blame it on the Winchesters," Crowley said, in an almost weary tone, like he'd said it often and not been listened to. He shrugged off the discontent easily enough, though, waving his hands a little. "But you've got to give me a little more than that. We're both stuck in here. You might as well give me all the…" His eyes flicked down the the dark blood staining Nell's shirt. "... _gory_  details."

"You know what? Just for that comment, I'm not telling you." Nell had been willing to humor the 'demon', but she drew the line at punny innuendos about getting her throat ripped out.

For the briefest of moments, he looked like he'd been slapped, eyes wide and disbelieving. "You serious?" Nell shrugged carelessly. Why would she relive the whole bloody thing for his amusement? "Oh,  _come on_. What are you gonna do, just sit there and mope?"

Nell pretended not to hear him, looking around the dungeon again with interest. "Hmmm, look at those markings. Wonder what language that is…"

"Oh, come—" Crowley shook his head, then said through his teeth, " _Please?_ " Nell raised an eyebrow at him, wondering if she was supposed to be impressed by his utterly lackluster manners. Still, eye contact prompted him to continue his appeal.

"Please. Nell. I have been sitting in this  _damn_  chair for three weeks—no visitors, no entertainment,  _nothing_. I'm going mad in here!" His voice climbed to an almost-shout, eyes wild with repressed fury, before he seemed to remember that he was trying to get something from her and tamped down the violence in his gaze. "Please, Nell. Tell me a story."

Nell considered him. He didn't precisely  _look_  like a man who'd been in a dungeon for three weeks. A bit rumpled, yes, but his suit still looked clean and his eyes were alert, if a little… manic.

And he  _had_  said the magic word.

"I was camping," Nell began with a sigh, "at the Grand Canyon, and the man at the campsite next to mine went hiking and never came back. I went to report him missing to the park rangers, but when I got there…" Nell paused. "You called them Winchesters?"

"Yes. Sam and Dean Winchester, brothers and general pains in my neck," Crowley drawled, a shadow of the irritation he felt at his jailors creeping into his voice. "Let me guess: they flashed some official-looking badges, used transparent aliases, and poked their noses where they don't belong."

"Yeah, well." Nell had been a bit too distracted by Henry's disappearance to pay too much attention to their swiping the names from the lead actors in  _Star Wars_. "They were apparently investigating a string of disappearances in the park, of which Henry was the latest. They were pretty adamant about handling the matter themselves instead of calling in search and rescue, but I could tell from the way they talked that they thought Henry was already dead."

"Ah." Crowley's eyes lit with recognition, apparently seeing where the story was going. "Hence, your foolish heroics."

Nell shrugged uncomfortably. "They clearly weren't in any rush to look for him, and the longer Henry was gone, the more likely he would die, so yes. I packed a bag and went to look for him." Which had been a terrible idea. Nell normally would have never done such a stupid thing, but her illness had greatly reduced her sense of self-preservation.

"Go on," Crowley prompted, encouraging, when she didn't continue immediately. Nell cleared her throat, trying to figure out how to continue.

"I followed the trail Henry had told me he was going to take." Nell stared at her dirty, scraped hands in an attempt to distract herself from the memory of the crow eating Roxie's cold, still body. "I found his dog with her neck snapped, but no sign of Henry."

Crowley's only reaction to this part of the story was a thinning of his lips, but Nell got the sense he disapproved. "The Winchesters caught up to me soon after that—carrying  _flamethrowers_ , I should add—and they had me walk between them to look for a nearby cave where they thought they might find Henry, or whatever took him."

"Of course they did," Crowley said, clearly unimpressed with the Winchesters' actions. "I take it you found it?"

"Yes, and Henry," Nell agreed. "Though he was an absolute mess, tied up and covered in blood. Sam said something about vampires and Henry rambled a bit about whatever attacked him drinking his blood, which I mostly dismissed at the time because I didn't want to argue with men with flamethrowers and big knives and because  _vampires aren't supposed to exist_." Nell shook her head, still unable to believe what was going on even though she'd seen it all with her own eyes, and only minutes ago had watched herself grown a whole new set of teeth.

"We got Henry him up and walking and got out of the woods as fast as possible, and Dean told me to drive him back to the ranger station for medical attention—which I did, but not before getting a good look at what I guess were vampires running out of the woods at them. I don't know how many there were, but I did see Dean take one of their heads clean off."

"Yes, for all their faults that is one thing they excel at," Crowley murmured. "What then?"

"I drove back to the ranger station with Henry. He'd been unconscious, but he woke up on the drive…"

"With a bad case of pink eye and a thirst for human blood," Crowley finished for her. "Tore your pretty little throat out." Crowley tsked. "And after you went through all that trouble."

"Yes." Nell was actually rather glad Crowley had deduced the ending of the story. She wasn't keen to relive the struggle, the pain, the blank eyes of Henry's decapitated head… "I was sure I was going to die, but then I woke up in their trunk."

"Ah, the trunk," Crowley said, mock-wistfully. "I have such fond memories."

Nell was almost relieved that she wasn't the only person who'd received such treatment. "What are you in for?"

"Weren't you listening to the boys? I'm a demon." Crowley's smile was slow and languid, his eyes flickering oddly in the dim light of the dungeon. "King of Hell, in point of fact."

Nell tilted her head to the side and squinted at him, trying to tell whether or not he was joking. He looked as proud as one reasonably could while shackled to a chair—which was to say, not very. Finally had to ask, "You're not serious, are you?"

Crowley looked mildly offended, though not particularly surprised. "What, vampires you'll accept, but demons are out of the question?"

The 'accepting vampires' bit was still very much a work in progress, but, "Yeah, pretty much."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Humans. Honestly."

Nell tilted her head back and closed her eyes, the hard wood of the chair digging into her neck. It felt real.  _Everything_  felt real. As insane as the events of the last few days had been, they felt, in many ways, more real than anything else. Ultra vivid. Ultra sharp. It didn't feel like a dream, but...

"Maybe I  _am_ asleep," she murmured to herself absently. This could still be some odd, weird concoction of her dying mind. "Slowly dying in a hospital in Arizona… or Virginia."

"Not exactly close," Crowley remarked.

Nell rolled her head down to look at him again. "If this is some weird, painkiller-induced dream, I'm probably dying in a hospital somewhere. So either I'm in Arizona, slowly dying from blood loss after Henry ripped my throat out in some manic episode,  _or_  I never left Virginia in the first place, and this whole trip was a dream that has only recently gone very, very weird." Nell thought back over the last few weeks, pondering that last possibility. "Maybe a medically induced coma?…"

Crowley's eyes narrowed. He leaned forward as far as he was able with the collar fastened around his neck, eyes darting from her face, to her neck, to her wrists. "You were already dying before the vampire got you," he realized aloud. "Let me guess… cancer?"

His voice was casual, almost bored. There was no pity, or sympathy, or even kindness in his gaze—just a mild interest in whether or not his guess was right.

Nell didn't  _miss_ the pity, but she couldn't help but find the lack of it slightly unsettling. "How'd you guess?"

Crowley relaxed back against his chair, smugly satisfied. "I've seen the signs often enough over the years. You must have had…" His eyes raked over her again. Nell wondered what sort of information he could glean just by looking at her. "Five, six months?"

"You're good," Nell admitted, morbidly impressed.

"I'm Crowley." The words were prideful, but they meant little to Nell. "So you get the bad news, and, what? Take a road trip?"

"That was the plan," Nell mused, lips twisting. "My mother wanted me to get treatment, but my odds of survival were in the single digits. I'd much rather enjoy the time I have left than try to fight a losing fight." Nell sighed. "But my mother's not one for odds or statistics. If she convinced a court I was suicidal, got power of attorney and put me in treatment…" Nell hummed doubtfully. She didn't think her mother was resourceful enough to pull something like that off. And surely, even if this was a dream, Nell would remember something like that happening. Plus, "The Grand Canyon was pretty amazing… I doubt I could dream that up."

"You're not dreaming, darling." Crowley flashed her an almost charming smile. "As of this moment, you're not even dying. But you will be, once those boys come back in the room with their little cure."

Nell thought she could see where he was going with this, and refused to entertain the notion. "I thought vampires were  _un_ dead? So I'll die no matter what, really."

"There are other ways," Crowley said, voice low and enticing. "Right now you're about 80% vampire. When those apes come back and shoot you full of vampire cure, you'll be right back where you started. Just months to live. I could give you  _years_."

Crowley's face was quite serious and earnest. Nell raised an eyebrow. "For what, Mephistopheles, my soul?"

"Well, yes." Crowley looked put out, but only for a moment before he smiled again. "What do you say? Not a bad bargain. One measly little soul for ten more years among the living."

Nell huffed a laugh. "I don't believe in souls, but if I did, I wouldn't trade it away for a hundred years, let alone ten."

"If you don't believe in souls, what's the harm in trading it away?" Crowley wheedled, leaning forward again as much as he was able.

"It's a pretty hefty price to pay if I turn out to be wrong."

"You'll die." He said it like a warning, but his face was more than a little disbelieving.

"Yes, I know."

Crowley's brow furrowed suddenly. "And you don't believe in souls. What,  _exactly_ , do you think is going to happen to you?"

"I'll cease to exist." Nell had accepted that a long time ago. It didn't bother her, or scare her. It sounded, frankly, more peaceful than any other version of the afterlife she'd ever heard proposed.

"And you're just… fine with that?" His voice was heavily skeptical.

"Yes."

Crowley opened his mouth to speak, but snapped it shut, eyes flicking behind Nell. She, too, heard the approaching footsteps, and soon after she heard the door behind her open. Sam and Dean's footsteps seemed terribly loud, now, as did their breathing, and their…

Heartbeats?

Nell could make out three steady heartbeats, one each for Sam, Dean, and Crowley. They were quiet and faint, like the hum of electricity in the walls—easy to overlook, but easy to tune into if you realized it was there. Her own heart was audible, too, but it was faltering, beating sluggishly in an irregular rhythm.

"Okay, Nell, here you go." Dean's voice was cheerier now, but he might as well have been shouting, everything was so loud. "One dose of Vampire-Be-Gone." He held up a needle filled with a dark liquid.

Crowley sat back, pulling his hands into his lap with a soft jingle of chains that nonetheless rang in Nell's ears. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," he sing-songed.

"Shut up, Crowley." Dean glared at him while Sam ignored him, kneeling down next to Nell and rolling up her right sleeve to reveal her pale forearm.

"I'm serious," Crowley insisted. Nell eyed him warily, wondering what he was trying to pull now. "Moose. Sam. Was it your idea to turn Nell, here?" Sam shot him a glare. Crowley smiled, slow and smug. "I'll bet it was. You're incapable of letting people die when they're supposed to, especially when it's your fault. That's why I thought you might like to know that if you press that plunger, you'll kill her."

"Shut up, Crowley," Nell sighed, echoing Dean. Whatever was happening, whether she was cured or woken or killed—it didn't much matter, in the end. Any of those would get her out of this dungeon and away from all this madness.

Unfortunately, Sam hesitated. He had looked prepared to ignore Crowley's words until Nell spoke, but now, as Dean handed him the syringe, his brow furrowed in concern. "Hey, wait—is he telling the truth?"

Dean folded his arms. "Of course he's not telling the truth. He's  _Crowley_. Hurry it up, Sammy." Sam shot Nell an inquiring look, and she nodded encouragingly. Looking reassured, Sam slid the needle into her arm.

"Oh, but I am," Crowley said quickly, eyes on the syringe. "Or didn't she tell you she's dying of cancer?"

Sam froze with his hand on the plunger. He looked between Crowley, whose eyes were still locked on the syringe, and Nell, who had rolled her eyes toward the ceiling in impatient disbelief. "Nell? Is that true?"

"Does it matter?" Nell nodded to the syringe impatiently. "I was promised that soon this would all be a bad dream."

Still, Sam hesitated. "How long do you have?"

"None of your business," Nell snapped.

"Months," Crowley breathed.

"Press the plunger, Sam, or I will," Dean said, voice hard.

Sam looked at him in disbelief. "Dean, she'll  _die_."

"Well her other option is to be a  _vampire_ , and then we'd have to kill her anyway." Nell shuddered involuntarily, remembering vividly just how easily he'd taken off someone's head.

"Not necessarily!" Sam's voice rose a little. Nell winced at the volume, and he lowered his voice apologetically. "Lenore and her nest fed on animals. Nell could, too."

"Lenore's nest gave that up, remember?" Dean looked utterly unswayed. "Lenore almost did, too—that's why Cas killed her."

"Yeah, but that was only because of Eve, and she's dead now!" The conversation was now entirely over Nell's head. Her eyes flicked back and forth between the two, trying to figure out her fate from the mess of names and allusions the two were bickering about.

Dean shook his head resolutely. "The point is, Lenore was an exception. Most vampires aren't like her."

"Dean, it's our fault she's like this. We owe it to her to do our best to save her," Sam insisted.

"It doesn't count as  _saving_  her if she's a monster!" Dean shouted. Nell grit her teeth, the sheer volume of his voice causing ringing echoes in her head. "Look, Sam, if she was already dying when we met her, all we owe to her is to put her back how she was."

"But she'll die!"

"Everybody dies sometime," Nell said, voice quiet. Her words shut Sam and Dean up, and Sam turned to her, eyes wide and looking like a kicked puppy. It was a little much, Nell thought, considering  _she_  was the one who was dying. "Now shut up and give me the shot."

Cacophony. Nell cried out in pain as the sound of metal on metal reverberated in her head. It was like her skull was a church bell that had been rung, and it  _ached_.

And then the pain was forgotten, because Nell tasted the most wonderful thing she'd ever tasted in her entire life.

It was dark and warm, like mulled wine at Christmas and bloody steak and sweet tobacco smoke all at once. It was smooth and thick as cream, with a bite like the darkest chocolate. It was every wonderful, sinful pleasure she'd ever felt put together, plus something new and wonderful and addictive. And now that she'd had a taste, she was starving for it. She couldn't get enough.

" _CROWLEY_!" Nell moaned in loss as the taste was yanked away. "Sam, do it!"

Sam cursed and pressed the plunger on the syringe.

Nell winced, blinking from disorientation and loss. Sam knelt on the ground next to Nell's chair. The table in the center of the circle had been knocked over, as had Crowley's chair. Dean was hunched over him, viciously beating him. Despite the violence, Nell could hear Crowley laughing wildly. At his side, his still-chained hands were covered in blood.

Blood.

Nell stared. She licked her lips cautiously, closing her eyes as she caught a few more drops of that heady, addicting liquid. What she'd just enjoyed more than anything else in her entire life, what she now  _craved_ , was blood. Crowley's blood.

"Oh, my god," Nell moaned, horrified. "I  _am_  a vampire."

"No, you're not," Dean pushed back, halting in his assault on Crowley's face to glare stubbornly at her. "You got the cure. The cure works. You'll be human in a couple of days, tops."

"Dean." Sam's voice was bleak. "The Campbell recipe is pretty clear… drink  _any_ blood, even one drop, and the cure won't work."

Dean growled. "But Crowley's a demon, right? She hasn't drank any human blood, so maybe it'll work just fine."

"I don't know, Dean. I've never even heard of a vampire drinking demon blood before. This is uncharted territory, but I think we have to be prepared for the possibility…" Sam swallowed loudly. Or maybe it was quiet, and Nell's senses were simply that much sharper. "We have to be prepared for the possibility that it's not going to work."

"Uncharted territory," Crowley repeated, chuckling through a bloody smile. "I have to thank you boys. This is the most entertainment I've had in weeks. And what a fun experiment. Which will win out: your cure, or my demon blood?"

Dean punched him in the face again. Nell heard the crack of Crowley's skull against the concrete, but still he laughed. "I should just kill you right now. We should've killed you ages ago!"

"But you won't." Crowley's tongue ran over his bloodied lips. Unconsciously, Nell mimicked the movement, but grit her teeth when she caught herself. "You might need me. I'm still useful to you."

Dean delivered a final, solid punch to Crowley's face before climbing off him, leaving him sprawled on the floor. He crossed over to Nell's chair, and she leaned back, eyeing him warily. She had, after all, seen him  _decapitate_  vampires, and since she now was one… But he didn't pull out any large knives, thankfully. Instead, he knelt down, silently beginning to untie the rope binding Nell to the chair.

Sam eyed him cautiously. "Dean?"

"We'll ward a spare room while the cure does its stuff," Dean said gruffly. "It's a rough time. Shouldn't leave her here with Crowley."

With Dean's attention on the ropes, only Nell could see the dismal, pitying look Sam was giving his brother.. "...Yeah, okay."


	3. Chapter 3

They moved her to an unused bedroom. It was small and spartan and smelled like dust and stale air, but it had a bed, and that was all Nell cared about. Everything was too bright, too loud, too… everything, and all she wanted to do was burrow beneath the sheets and sleep.

Dean, who had kept a firm grip on her arm for the walk out of the dungeon and down the hall, eased her onto the bed. Stepping back, he hesitated, glancing at the ropes on Nell's wrists. He'd left hem bound, though he'd freed her feet so she could walk. Nell appreciated the gesture—she was getting dizzy, and she was sure being hoisted over his shoulder into the fireman's carry he'd used earlier would have been overwhelming to her overstimulated senses.

With a small sigh and a shake of his head, Dean knelt down. Instead of reaching for the knots on her wrists, however, he reached for the ones on her boots. His shoulders were tense, Nell, noticed, and he tugged at the laces and the leather with rough, abrupt movements.

"How long will it take to know if it works?" The whispered question sounded too loud in her own head.

"It's gonna work." As if to emphasize the point, Dean jerked the boot off her left foot. It thudded to the floor like the clatter of pans falling in a kitchen, and Nell winced, gritting her teeth at the pounding in her head. Dean glanced up, taking in her expression, and though he didn't comment on her reaction, he removed the other boot much more gently, placing it on the floor with quiet intention. "Shouldn't take more than a day."

There was steely determination in his voice, but it didn't bring her any comfort. Quite the opposite, in fact, though it took her a few seconds to process why.

The tone, the expression on his face, was deeply familiar to her. It wasn't certainty, or hope, or faith. It was denial.

Nell exhaled harshly at the realization. Dean seemed not to notice. "It's best to try to sleep it off," he advised, crossing the room to retrieve a small trash pail and placing it by the bedside table. "And you'll be needing this. Try not to miss."

"Great." Throwing up was unpleasant enough without the ridiculous hypersensitivity she was currently suffering from. She suspected the sheer sensory stimulation of vomiting would be enough to make her pass out.

Resigned to a thoroughly unpleasant night, Nell pulled back the musty bedcover and wormed her way under the sheets. Closing her eyes was sweet relief, cutting off one of her overly heightened senses. With her bound hands she fumbled to grab the second pillow from the opposite side of the bed and pressed it over her head, sighing contentedly as the sounds of beating hearts and sighing breath and groaning pipes grew quieter.

Dean's booted feet tromped away. The lights clicked off. The door creaked open. "It'll be over in no time," Dean promised once more, quietly, before closing the door and locking her inside.

As she drifted off, Nell wished desperately that she could believe him.

Nell wasn't sure how much time passed. She drifted in and out of consciousness, but it was difficult to tell when she was awake and when she was dreaming. Her skin itched, and every inch of her tingled painfully, as if every limb had fallen asleep simultaneously. She alternated between burning hot and freezing cold, and woke frequently to throw off the bedsheets or greedily wrap them back around herself.

Sweat covered her entire body, beading on her forehead and dripping into her still blood-matted curls. Her head pounded painfully with every beat of her heart, like her veins could no longer take the force of the liquid pumping through them. Her teeth and jaw ached with a pain Nell hadn't felt since she'd had her wisdom teeth out.

Worst of all, though, was her stomach.

She was nauseous. Dizzy. Even when she lay completely still, it felt as though the bed was rocking beneath her on violent seas. She felt simultaneously ravenous and repulsed by the thought of food, and her stomach seized and cramped more ferociously than she'd ever experienced.

She tried to vomit. She would feel the bile rising in her throat like a wave, and she'd leaned over to the trash pail, hoping that finally,  _finally_  she'd feel relief if only she could empty her stomach. But every time she thought she'd throw up, nothing came up.

Every time she dry-heaved without success, panic grew in her gut. She could feel her body trying to expel the poison, could feel it just out of reach. She was terrified of what would happen if she couldn't throw up, if the poison never left.

The third or fourth time she tried to vomit—it was hard to keep track, and more than once she dreamed that she succeeded, only to wake and find the trash pail still empty—she startled as, mid-retch, warm, rough hands pulled her hair back and away from her face.

"You can do it," Dean's encouraged, holding her damp curls off her neck. "Get it all out."

"I can't." Nell spat a glob of acid-flavored saliva into the empty pail, swiping at the crusty-feeling tracks of died tears on her face. "I heave, and I heave, and nothing comes up."

"You gotta try harder." Dean's voice was rough and urgent. Nell struggled to focus on his earnest expression, but her vision was blurry. With illness or tears, she couldn't tell. "That's how it works. You've got to throw it all up."

"What happens if I don't?" But Nell knew even before she asked. Dean didn't bother answering, just shook his head and stepped away again. Nell shuddered and collapsed back into the sheets, suddenly cold without the heat of his hands so close.

When Nell woke again for a fifth unsuccessful bout of heaving, she got desperate. She shoved a hand down the back of her throat, trying to manually stimulate the gag reflex, hoping she could force the expulsion. She earned bloody knuckles, a few loud, heaving retches, and a defiantly empty garbage pail.

The door creaked open again, and Nell's shoulders hunched. She hid her face in her sweat-drenched pillow, not wanting to see Dean's face when he saw the pail still empty.

But it wasn't Dean this time. The steps were quieter, and Nell turned her face to look as the bed sank to one side. Sam.

Nell couldn't decide which brother was more depressing—Dean, masking his denial of the situation with steely determination, or Sam, who was entirely unable to conceal his pity and guilt.

"How are you feeling?" He asked, tentatively, eyes flicking over her face with a pained expression that told Nell that she had to look at least half as bad as she felt.

"Dandy."

Sam ignored her raspy sarcasm, reaching one of his massive hands toward her forehead to check her temperature. Nell leaned into it, relishing the warmth, but Sam jerked his hand away after barely a second.

"You're burning up." He looked between his hand and Nell's face, worry evident.

"Really?" Nell clutched the blankets around her more tightly, in case Sam suggested she get rid of them. "I feel freezing."

Sam's lips thinned. He looked away from her, to the still-empty garbage pail, and his shoulders drooped.

"How long has it been?"

Sam swallowed. Nell wasn't sure if it was an objectively loud sound, or simply loud to her. "Twelve hours."

Nell shuddered out a long breath. Dean had said 'not more than a day'—which meant half her time, or more, was already gone. That wasn't a good sign, she was sure, not just because of the math but also because Sam had visibly winced when he said it.

He didn't believe the cure would work.

Nell turned her face back into the pillow without another word, unwilling to look at him any longer. Sam hesitated, but left, easing the door shut behind him as quietly as he could.

"Did she throw up?" Dean demanded in a low voice. He must have been waiting outside the door, but Nell could hear him as easily as if the two were standing at her bedside.

"No," Sam replied, keeping his voice low as well. "And, honestly?… I don't think she's going to."

"Of course she is." Dean said it too soon to be believable. "We gave her the cure."

"Yeah, we did," Sam agreed. "And if I'd given it to her thirty seconds earlier, it would've worked." He paused, and when he continued his voice was full of dark self-reproach. "If I hadn't hesitated… If I just ignored Crowley—"

"Okay, stop," Dean interrupted, no-nonsense. "Is her heart still beating?"

Sam hesitated, then said, almost reluctantly, "Yeah."

"Then it hasn't failed yet." His tone was final, like the matter had been settled. There was a muffled thump that confused Nell for a moment, before she guessed that maybe Dean had patted his brother on the shoulder. "You should get some shut eye." There was an inhale of breath, like Sam was about to protest, but Dean continued, "You look almost as bad as she does."

Sam released his breath in a whoosh. "Ouch," he said, but without heat. He trudged down the hall, to another bedroom, Nell guessed. Dean waited for another few minutes outside Nell's door, but eventually he, too, walked away, leaving Nell alone once more.

Nell wasn't sure when she fell asleep again, or how long she slept for. In her dreams someone was calling her name, and she was searching desperately for them. She had to reach them, somehow, it was so important—the  _most_  important thing. She ran and ran, through darkness and whirls of color, her own name echoing in her head. Just when she thought she'd found the speaker, she reached out to touch him—

And clutched empty air.

Just a fever dream, Nell told herself, staring at the thin, bony hand curled in the air in front of her. The motion of her own arm had woken her, though she was sweaty and her breath heaved as if she had indeed been running around.

It had just been a dream… except, someone was still calling her name.

At first she thought she was still half-asleep, delirious, looking around the empty room and seeing no one. It took her longer than it should have to remember that she could hear far, far beyond the room she was locked in, and to place the voice of the person calling out to her.

"Nell," Crowley repeated, voice light and low. The sound of it was almost painful, like a stitch from running, but in her gut and her teeth. "Nell, darling. Can you hear me?"

Nell held her breath, as if, if she made any noise, Crowley would hear her. Maybe he would. Maybe he could hear just as well as she could.

"I bet you can," Crowley continued, certain and quiet and oddly satisfied. "Bet every heartbeat in this place is clanging like a church bell for you."

It was true. There were five hearts beating in the bunker. Sam's and Dean's, slow and steady in sleep. A faster one, accompanied by sighs and rustling pages, that Nell guessed belonged to whoever Kevin was. Nell's own heartbeat, racing fast and hard, like she'd just run a mile at a full sprint.

And finally, Crowley's: steady and strong, like a drum beat. The sound of its beating was almost hypnotic as Nell focused on it.

"It hurts, doesn't it?" It was more statement than question. There was something like sympathy in Crowley's tone, but not the sincere kind she'd heard from Sam. It sounded more like an affectation, like he was leading somewhere. But Nell would hear him out, because she couldn't  _not_  hear him, and because his words were intertwining with the beat of his heart like music. "I know it hurts... But all the best things in life do."

Nell couldn't suppress a derisive laugh, and then a groan as the movement pulled at her aching muscles and made her stomach twist into knots. "You and I must have very different ideas about the best things in life."

Crowley's breath caught. Nell's did, too, as she realized that, yes, Crowley's hearing must be nearly as sensitive as hers.

"Perhaps," Crowley breathed at last. "But not for long, I'm sure."

Nell was silent, but that was answer enough. Crowley sighed gustily, sounding vaguely disappointed. "If the Winchesters weren't so obsessed with fighting the inevitable you'd have an easier time of it."

"It's not inevitable," Nell denied, but she didn't believe it and it showed in her voice.

"Is that cure so disorientating that you can't see a good thing when it's handed to you?" Crowley continued, slowly, like Nell was hard of hearing, "You were going to die. Now, if you're very careful, you'll never have to."

Nell went still. "Never?" She repeated, voice shaking.

"Never."

Nell dove for the trash pail, shoving her fingers down her throat again and retching around her battered knuckles.

"What are you—" Crowley's voice rose nearly an octave in disbelief. "Stop! Stop that, you suicidal idiot. Are you  _trying_ to kill yourself?"

" _Yes_ ," Nell hissed, glaring at the empty pail like it was Crowley's stupid face. Her fingers were digging into the edge of the pail so hard it was starting to bend—a bad sign, Nell thought with no small amount of alarm, considering it was made of metal. "Yes, I am. I would rather die right now in a puddle of my own vomit than live forever."

"Don't." It was half-plea, half-command. Nell ignored it, shoving her fingers down her throat again and praying to any higher power who could hear her that she would finally just  _throw up_. Her body shook with tremors, and every heave was physically painful, but she tried, desperately, over and over again.

"Don't die, don't you  _dare_  die," Crowley repeated the demand over and over, fast and urgent and more and more insistent every time Nell retched. After what must have been ten solid minutes of fruitless heaving, Nell sat back, eyes watering and throat aching, to catch her breath.

"Think this through, Nell. Just  _think_." Crowley paused, like he himself was desperately thinking of something to say to get Nell to stop. It was useless, Nell thought. There was nothing he could say that would convince her, nothing that would make her change her mind. The thought of living forever was terrible enough, but to live like a monster?

She could remember, vividly, how kind old Henry, who shared his beer and loved his dog, had grown teeth before her eyes and sank them into her neck. She could remember the look in his eyes as he stared at her, hungry and remorseless and utterly inhuman.

Nell put a shaking hand to her lips again. She had to do it. Now or never.

"Think of the blood."

Nell froze, breath catching in her throat. Her heart and Crowley's heart were a cacophony, his beating rapidly, hers erratically.

"No," she breathed, but it was too late. She didn't want to think of the blood, she  _didn't_ , but it was impossible not to, now that Crowley had said it. Trying not to think of it only brought it even more to the forefront of her mind, and she couldn't shut out the thought of it, the memory—

Hot. Thick. Smooth as chocolate, heady as champagne. The best thing she'd ever tasted in her entire life. How could she have forgotten the blood?

" _Yes_ , Nell," Crowley hissed, triumphant. "How did it  _taste_? How did it  _feel_?"

"Shut up." Nell pressed her hands over her ears, but she could still hear him. Each word rang like a gong over the loud background noise of their hearts beating rapidly together. "Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

"You loved it," Crowley pressed on. "You should have seen yourself—pupils blown, licking the drops of  _my blood_  off your lips, greedy for more."

Nell moaned, not from the image itself, but because the thought of it had made her sharp, jagged teeth descend so rapidly she bit her own lip. The bite drew blood, and she was licking it off her lips before she even realized what she was doing. But it wasn't the same, it wasn't  _enough_.

"You want more, don't you?" Nell jolted, spitting the blood from her lip into the pail. A string of pink, bloody saliva stuck to her teeth, though, clinging. She retched again.

"Stop fighting it," Crowley admonished at the sound. "Choose blood, Nell. Choose  _life_."

The weight of Crowley's words made Nell's breath hitch. Her heart stuttered. Stuttered. Faltered.

Panic swelled in Nell's chest, but instead of speeding up in response, her heart slowed further, beat irregular and sluggish. Suddenly Dean's words from hours ago rang in her head.

_Is her heart still beating? Then it hasn't failed yet._

"No," Nell breathed, pounding her still-bound hands against her chest in a desperate attempt to get her heart beating regularly again. "No. No, no, no, no, no, this isn't happening. Come on… come on…"

Crowley said nothing, but he didn't need to. His heart was beating faster, even as Nell's slowed and faltered.

"Come on." A frantic beat on her chest, a feeble beat of her heart. A beat for a beat, a beat for a beat, until—

"No."

Nell thumped her hands against her chest, but there was no answering thump of her heart. She thumped again, and again, and again, but it was useless. Her heart was still.

The silence of it was deafening.

Her breathing was suddenly too loud. The air rushing in and out of her lungs sounded wrong without the answering beat of her heart. The panic, the fear, the anger and nervous energy that had been building for hours and hours seemed to fill her chest with every breath. There was no release with the exhale, though. The pressure simply built, and built, until—

She couldn't have held back the scream. It was rage, and loss, and fear, and the sound of it drowned out the horrible silence of her still heart. She screamed again, and again, harsh, sobbing, tearless screams, but it wasn't enough.

Her hands tore through her hair—her free hands, because in her rage the ropes might as well have been made of tissue paper. But it wasn't enough. Her heartbeat was gone, and that meant— that meant—

With a snarl, Nell crossed to the solid wooden desk pressed against one wall and kicked. Her feet were only clad in socks. With the force she levelled at it, and the sturdiness of the wood, she should have broken a bone.

But she didn't.

The kick knocked the desk clear across the room, clattering against the wall with a creak of wood. But it was still in tact, so Nell followed its path and kicked it, again and again. She didn't care about noise, or pain. All she wanted to do was vent her frustrations until either she or the stupid desk was broken beyond repair.

For a good minute, all she could hear was the sound of her heavy, ragged breathing, the rush of wind as her foot sailed through the air, and the splinter and crack of wood.

Then, "Nell, STOP!"

Sam. Of course. Nell stopped her assault on the desk, her anger fleeing, leaving behind a hollow despair.

Nell turned to look at them. Sam was holding a large machete, and it gleamed in the light from the hallway. Dean's knife was still at his belt, but he had a gun aimed right at Nell's heart. With despair, Nell realized that he might as well shoot it, for all the difference it would make.

"What the hell is going on in here?" Dean's eyes were fixed on Nell, unmoving, but Sam's eyes flicked from her face, to the shredded ropes on the ground, to the ruined desk, to the dented, empty pail. His shoulders sagged downward an inch, but his grip on his knife didn't falter.

"My heart stopped." Nell's breath hitched and her eyes stung, but no tears came. "My heart stopped, and I can't cry and—" Nell shuddered out a breath, wrapping her arms around herself to stop them from shaking at her sides. "The desk might as well have been made of toothpicks."

Nell herself was no worse for wear. Looking at her feet, she found that though her socks were battered and dirty and covered in splinters, her feet and legs didn't have so much as a scratch on them.

"That's okay."

The calm reassurance was so unexpected that Nell whipped her head up from her examination of her feet to assure herself that it wasn't some trick so he could get close and take her head off with his machete, like they'd done to Henry and those other vampires. But no—Sam's eyes were wide and sincere.

"It really isn't," Nell disagreed.

So did Dean, apparently, as he jerked his head toward the hallway without moving his gun an inch. "Sam, can I talk to you outside?"

Sam sighed through his nose, but nodded and turned toward the hallway with a long-suffering look. Dean kept his gun trained on Nell's heart as he backed out through the door, then swiftly shut the door to the bedroom.

Sighing, Nell slid down the wall to sit on the ground, resting her head on her knees as she listened to the brothers' not-at-all-secret conversation.

"'That's okay'?" Dean repeated first, disbelieving. "What's your plan, here? It's not like there's another 'vegetarian' nest we could send her off to." Nell was a little relieved to hear that Dean's short-list of solutions to this predicament didn't seem to include chopping her head off.

"We can't just send her away on her own, either." Sam's voice was earnest. "Even if she has the will to stay—er, 'vegetarian', she might draw the attention of some other hunter. This is our fault. She's our responsibility."

Dean was quiet for a moment. Curiously, he was no longer attempting to correct his brother's use of the collective word. "Well we can't exactly bring a cow into the bunker, and she's gotta be starving by now. How the hell are we supposed to feed her?"

She  _was_ starving. She was so hungry she felt sick—almost faint. But she was utterly unwilling to mention it, to admit out loud, to the Winchesters and to the doubtlessly-eavesdropping Crowley, that she needed blood, and  _soon_.

"There's a butcher not too far away from here that sells pig's blood by the gallon," Sam said after a long moment of consideration.

"Already looked that up, did you." Dean's voice was flat. "And are they open at—" A brief pause. "4 AM?"

"No," Sam admitted. Sounding uncomfortable, he added, "And they're closed on Mondays." From the wince in his voice, Nell guessed that today must be Monday.

"Well, that's just great. What are we supposed to do until then?"

Sam didn't hesitate. "There's us."

"Uh-uh, no way," Dean denied immediately "Not happening. Once a monster's got the taste for human blood it's too hard to go back. You know that."

 _A monster_ , he said.

Was that what she was, now? Dean spoke the word easily, like it was a given fact, but Nell didn't feel any different. Well,  _physically_ she did, what with the super senses and the urgent thirst for blood, but Nell herself, the person she was on the inside, was still unchanged.

Wasn't she?

"She's already tasted Crowley's blood, and she didn't go crazy then," Sam reasoned.

"She was tied up, then."

"Then we tie her up again!" Sam's voice raised slightly. "It'll only take a day to get some pig's blood. We can tie her up, feed her a little at a time until we can figure it all out."

There was a shuffling motion, which Nell guessed might have been Dean crossing his arms. He heaved an irritated, but resigned sigh. "Okay, fine. But we're using my blood. You still look sick, and I ain't carrying you to bed if you faint."

"I'm  _fine_ ," Sam protested, but sighed. "But fine, okay. A little bit at a time, then. Just for today."

Dean walked off, presumably to procure a syringe, and Sam re-entered the room. He opened his mouth, maybe to repeat the conclusion of his and Dean's conversation, but halted at Nell's unimpressed stare. He paused just past the doorway, understanding and a touch of embarrassment coloring his face. "You heard that entire conversation, didn't you?"

"Mmhmm."

Sam coughed awkwardly, cheeks still slightly pink. "Right. Okay, then. I'm just gonna… tie you back up, okay?"

Nell sighed and nodded, heaving herself off the floor and settling into the room's only chair, a solid wooden one which matched the desk she'd just destroyed. Sam tied her wrists and ankles together again first, before securing her arms and torso to the back of the chair. Nell decided not to mention how just how easily she'd snapped the ropes off her wrists just minutes ago.

When he finished securing all the knots, Sam stood, peering down into her face with a mix of concern and curiosity. "Are you, uh… hungry?"

Nell closed her eyes and swallowed. She was. More than she ever had been in her entire life, and with such intensity that she didn't think she would ever be able to fully describe the sensation. Instead of trying, she simply opened her eyes and nodded.

Sam frowned sympathetically, but furrowed his brow. "But you haven't gone… uh, toothy. And I've been pretty close…"

"What, were you testing me?" Sam shrugged minutely, still looking curious. Nell had to admit it was in an interesting point. Starving though she was, Sam did not smell appetizing. In fact…

Nell inhaled deeply, taking in Sam's scent, and coughed. "So, don't take this the wrong way, but you smell… bad."

There was a huff of laughter. Nell glanced at the doorway for a moment, expecting Dean to be amused by her description of his brother's smell, but the hallway was still empty.  _Crowley_ , she remembered belatedly, suppressing a roll of her eyes.

"Bad?" Sam repeated, confused. His arm twitched, like he'd briefly considered lifting it for a sniff. But that wasn't what she was talking about.

"Bad," Nell confirmed, actually a little worried for him now that she was paying attention to the smell coming off him. "Like… rotten, almost."

Sam's expression flickered from confused, to concerned, back to curious. "Is it just me? Or all human blood?"

"There's not a lot of humans around to compare..." Still, Nell obligingly drew in a deep breath. Pushing past Sam's off-putting scent, she smelled Dean's spicy musk lingering in the room. She did her best to ignore the hints of Crowley's intoxicating scent, focusing instead on the faint smell of someone else. "Dean and the guy I haven't met—Kevin?—smell better."

"Huh." Sam chewed on that for a second before asking tentatively, "And Crowley?"

Nell wasn't about to admit aloud that the smell of Crowley's blood ranked about a 50 on a scale of 1 to 10, considering he could apparently hear their entire conversation. She settled for a grudging, "Better."

"Demon blood." Sam muttered it thoughtfully, seemingly to himself. "Huh…" Nell looked towards the door as Dean's footsteps approached, and Sam followed her eyes. A moment later Dean opened the door, a syringe of blood in one hand and a small cup in the other.

Dean waggled the syringe cheerily, seemingly trying to lighten the mood a little. "Breakfast." He glanced at the ruins of the desk before crossing to the nightstand near the bed, setting the up down and emptying the blood from the syringe into it. The smell hit Nell immediately, and her teeth descended as easily and naturally as salivating. She kept her mouth clamped shut, mortified at her complete lack of control, the physical evidence of her monstrous hunger.

Dean approached with the cup, and extended it, slowly, to her lips. "Drink up."

Nell obeyed, gulping down the warm blood like a bottle of cold water after a long run. It was  _wonderful_ , but it was gone in moments. When the cup was empty, Nell blinked, licking the last drop of blood from her lips, savoring it. Her hunger was scarcely dulled, but she felt significantly less tense, and her teeth retracted easily. Looking away from the cup, she found both brothers eyeing her warily.

"What?"

"How are you feeling?" Sam asked slowly. "Do you… er, need more?"

Nell swallowed. The painful, aching pit in her stomach had barely been mollified by the small amount of blood. At the same time, she felt very weird about, essentially, asking to eat more of Dean—even if it was only blood and he'd replace it soon enough. "I'm still hungry, but it can wait."

Dean scanned Nell's face for a long moment, creases forming in the corner of his eyes as he examined her for… something. "I gotta say, I'm kinda surprised you're still…  _you_."

Nell blinked, looking back and forth between them. Sam had nodded thoughtfully at Dean's words. "Who else would I possibly be?"

Dean's rocked back on his heels. His look of confusion was slowly being replaced with a sort of wary, hopeful skepticism. "New vampires are usually all instinct. They don't stop at one cup of blood and ask politely for more—they latch on to the nearest human neck and suck them dry."

"But your teeth retracted," Sam said. It was like he couldn't decide whether to be confused or impressed. "You just calmly told us you're still hungry. You didn't even try to bite Dean's wrist, even though he was close enough."

Nell's brow furrowed at that. "Was that another test?"

Dean shrugged, unapologetic. "A little one. Which you passed, with, uh— _surprisingly_  flying colors."

Nell leaned back in her chair, licking her lips again thoughtfully and puzzling over the tension in Dean's shoulders and the deep line between Sam's brows. "That's good, isn't it? Not wanting to kill people is good."

"It is," Sam agreed quickly. "But it's also…" He trailed off, as if searching for just the right word.

"Weird," Dean finished gruffly.

Sam sighed, but nodded and echoed, "Weird."

"Maybe the cure isn't completely all or nothing?" Nell guessed, though she felt a little out of her depth trying to theorize about supernatural cures for vampirism.

Sam frowned thoughtfully. "Or the demon blood."

Dean straightened abruptly at Sam's suggestion, eyes dark and wary as he glanced between Sam and Nell. The look was dangerous, and it sent a little jolt of panic down Nell's spine. She would have bet money that that was the look on his face when he cut Henry's head off.

Sam continued to theorize aloud, either unaware of or ignoring his brother's foreboding look. "We know drinking demon blood can give humans special abilities. Maybe it's the same for vampires. Better self control, or something."

Dean grunted. "I like her idea better. I'm not keen to find out what kind of other powers a vamp might develop on demon blood."

"Oh, but  _I_  am," Crowley breathed. Nell shook her head, focusing on Sam and Dean and trying to ignore the way Crowley's voice made her spine tingle.

"If it helps her keep her mind, tamps down the bloodlust, wouldn't that be worth it?" Sam squared his shoulders stubbornly. "Besides, Crowley did this. It would serve him right to be her blood bag for a while."

Nell's teeth ached at the mere  _thought_. She closed her eyes and clenched her jaw, hoping the brothers were too caught up in their little spat to see her nearly drooling at the idea of tasting the man's blood again. Or demon's, as it were.

"No." Dean's tone was final, but still he added, "We've seen what demon blood does." At that, Sam's shoulders hunched. Dean scooped up the empty cup and the syringe, promising to return shortly with some more blood, and left. With an apologetic glance, Sam followed after him, leaving Nell tied up and alone with her thoughts.

Her thoughts, and Crowley.

"Better, am I?" Crowley asked after the Winchester's steps had faded farther away. "How much better am I, love?"

"I'm beginning to understand why the Winchesters have you locked securely in a dungeon." Nell had hoped that her peeved tone would discourage the demon's attempts at conversation, but he was undeterred.

"Not  _too_ securely. You could get me out easily, I'm sure." Crowley said this in the tone of a compliment, before continuing suggestively, "I'd even let you have a taste again."

Nell managed to prevent her jagged teeth from descending at the thought through sheer force of will, but it took a moment for her to gather herself. When she was reasonably certain she could talk without sounding like a starved animal, she warned, "I'm not above asking them to gag you, you know."

"You wouldn't," Crowley said, disbelieving. Nell drew in a deep breath, as if to shout, and Crowley rushed out, "Okay, okay! I yield." Nell released her breath in a sigh. After a moment, though, Crowley tried his luck one last time, adding in a low voice, "You'd only be hurting yourself, though, you know. We're in the same situation, you and I. Tied up, alone, and entirely at the mercy of men who kill things like us for a living."

"Shut up, Crowley."

"If you say so, love."

And he did shut up, but the damage had already been done. Because he was right, wasn't he? Sam and Dean Winchester hunted monsters, and now she was one. True, they'd tried to help her, first when she'd nearly been killed by Henry, and then again when Crowley sabotaged their attempts to cure her. They were still helping her even now, feeding her blood… but that didn't mean they weren't dangerous.

Their botched vampire hunt is what had gotten her in this situation in the first place, and since then they'd made her a vampire, locked her in a trunk, tied her up in a dungeon with a demon, and then essentially poisoned her. When she'd had her minor panic attack earlier because her  _heart had stopped beating_ , their first instinct was to come in with guns and big knives. Nell hadn't missed the never-wavering aim of Dean's pistol, or the fact that Sam's hand had never loosened on the hilt of his machete.

The wary mistrust, their insistence that Nell and her transformation was  _weird_ , did not inspire confidence. Maybe the brothers felt sorry for her, guilty that they'd kind-of sort-of gotten her killed, and that was the only thing staying their hand from just killing her now that she was a monster.

Nell shook her head to dislodge that thought. It was just paranoia, and it didn't make a lick of sense. They wouldn't be going to all the trouble to feed her, or buy pig's blood by the gallon, if they were planning to kill her. She'd even heard them talking about 'vegetarian' vampires, although they'd admitted they didn't know any to send her to.

In the end, Nell thought, Sam and Dean just wanted to protect people. Most of the time, the way they did that was by killing monsters. But if Nell could prove that she wasn't a monster, that she wouldn't hurt anyone…

Then all she would have to worry about was figuring out how to spend an undying eternity as a blood-sucking vampire.

* * *

Dean visited once every few hours, giving Nell a pint of blood over the course of the day. It wasn't enough to make her hunger disappear, but it helped a great deal. The hunger pangs weren't nearly so painful or distracting, and when she'd drained the last drop of blood in the last cup Dean promised her that Sam would have some pig blood for her "real soon."

With a speculative, measuring look, he'd left her in her room untied and unsupervised, though he still made a point to lock the door from the outside. The small measure of trust and freedom was nice, if a little lackluster. The room was completely bare, except for the bed, bedside table, chair, and the desk she'd demolished.

Alone with her thoughts, time passed slowly. It was difficult to tell whether it was night or day, as the room had no clock and no windows. Though Nell wasn't tired, she flopped into the bed's stale, sweat-stained sheets anyway, hoping to sleep away the boredom. She closed her eyes, slowed her breath, and let her mind drift.

Without a way to keep time, she could only guess at how long she lay there by the sounds of Sam and Dean's distant conversation or the flipping of pages and soft breathing from another bedroom. It felt like hours.

Falling asleep had never been something Nell had trouble with before. Cars, airplanes, noise, daylight—she could sleep through it all. As time dragged on and she listened to the sounds of brushing teeth, the rustle of bedsheets, and the brothers' slow breathing, Nell began to suspect that this wasn't just trouble sleeping.

She was beginning to think that, whatever she was now, she  _couldn't_  sleep.

A sob built in her chest like an inflating balloon. She forced it down so it escaped in a shuddering breath instead of a wail. Her eyes burned and her forehead ached but no tears came, which just reinforced the overwhelming knowledge that she wasn't human anymore.

Drinking blood should have been her first clue, but that had just been  _weird_. It was something new, it wasn't  _loss_. But it was, she realized now, her chest heaving, because it was  _all_  blood from here on out.

Nell had planned to spend the last months of her life eating, drinking, and enjoying the sights of the world before she left it forever. Now, eternity spanned before her, undying and inhuman, with everything she loved to do lying just out reach.

She let herself cry, as much as she could without tears. She heaved dry, agonized sobs for hours, no longer trying to keep quiet, not caring that Crowley was doubtlessly listening. She deserved to mourn her humanity, and she did, until she exhausted herself. When her chest stopped shaking and her eyes stopped burning, she stared at the dust on the ceiling. With her body tired and her mind drifting, she could almost convince herself she dreamed.

* * *

Nell didn't know if she could drink coffee anymore, but the smell and sound of it percolating still roused her. She guessed it was morning, though she didn't know what time. Dean was still snoring, but Sam's breathing was absent. There was still breathing, heavy sighs, and occasional scribbling from another bedroom, which Nell guessed was the 'Kevin' she had heard about, but not seen. Nell didn't think he'd slept. If Nell truly focused, she could hear a distant heart beat and relaxed, steady breathing that she knew must be Crowley.

Nell sat up at the sound of the door to the bunker opening. Sam's breathing was quick and his heart was pumping quickly. For a moment Nell's stomach lurched, thinking it was a sign of panic or fear, but then Sam's breathing slowed as he walked slowly and leisurely toward the kitchen. He'd probably just gone for a run, Nell guessed.

Sam drank some water, and Nell mused over how odd it was that her hearing was so keen that she could hear him swallowing from so far away. Dean's snoring cut off not long after and he rolled out of bed with a grumble, shuffling toward the kitchen in search of coffee. Further down the hall, Kevin heaved a sigh. His chair scraped back as he, too, shuffled down the hallway.

"Hey, Kev." Dean's voice was gruff as he poured coffee. "How goes the Angel Tablet?"

Nell grimaced. Angels, now? She really hoped that 'Angel Tablet' was just the name of a text. Vampires? Apparently real. Demons? Also apparently real. But angels? God?

"Terrible." Kevin sounded exhausted. He also sounded  _young_ , almost like a teenager. Nell wondered how old he was, and just  _what_  he was or what had happened for him to end up in this bunker. "I've been looking for weeks, but there's nothing about returning the angels to heaven."

There was a thump and a shuffling of feet. Nell guessed Dean had thumped Kevin on the shoulder. "Just keep at it, man. There's gotta be something." Kevin sighed and poured a cup of coffee, slurping instead of responding to Dean. "Oh, and, uh. Stay out of the first bedroom on the left, okay?"

Kevin gulped his coffee and was silent for a beat. "Why." There was wary suspicion in his tone, with just a hint of anger.

"Nothing to worry about," Dean assured quickly, slurping his own coffee.

"Dean." Kevin's voice was strained and tired. "What's in the bedroom?"

"I told you, it's nothing to worry about."

"Sam." Nell assumed Kevin had turned to the other brother for an explanation. There was a thunk as something hit the table, and Sam sighed.

"There's a vampire in there."

Kevin's heartbeat picked up immediately and his breath hitched. Nell thought it was fear, at first, but then remembered his tone from earlier. Maybe it was anger… or perhaps a little of both.

Dean cursed. "Come on, Sam!"

"He deserves to know, Dean, and he was gonna find out eventually!"

"Why," Kevin's voice was tight, "is there a vampire in the bedroom?"

Sam sighed. There was a creak of wood as he shifted in his chair. "You remember the last case we went on? The wendigo in the Grand Canyon?" Kevin grunted an affirmative. "It wasn't a wendigo. It was a couple of vampires. We got them, but not before they turned another guy—and before we could cure  _him_ , he nearly sucked dry this girl who helped us find him in the first place. We killed him, but not quick enough to save her…" Sam's voice trailed off, sounding defeated.

"I don't understand." Kevin said. "If he's dead, who's the vampire?"

"The chick's the vampire," Dean corrected, voice part annoyed, part exasperated. "Chick was bleeding out on the forest floor, and Sam had the  _brilliant_ idea of turning her, then bringing her back to the bunker for the cure, so she didn't have to die."

"Come on, Dean!" Sam protested. "It would have worked if it wasn't for Crowley. If we'd put her in the bedroom in the  _first place_ —"

"In the first place you should've left well enough alone!" Dean's voice had risen almost to a shout. A long, heavy silence followed his words.

"So you guys tried to save someone, failed, nearly got someone else killed, and then accidentally turned her into a vampire." Kevin summarized, voice flat. "Yeah, that sounds like the Winchesters."

"Hey," Sam protested, though his tone was halfhearted.

"Is she dangerous?" Kevin asked, resigned.

"No!" "Yes." The brothers answered at the same time. " _Yes_ ," Dean repeated more firmly.

"Right. This sounds safe." Kevin poured some more coffee. "I'll be in my room, working on the angel tablet. Try not to get me or anyone else killed, okay?" He walked down the hall, pausing and sighing at Nell's door, before returning to his bedroom and his work.

"That went well," Dean snarked after his door had shut.

"Dean, Nell's not dangerous," Sam said, voice earnest. "She's actually kind of insanely well adjusted."

"Yeah, she is." Dean said, in a tone that said Sam was just proving his point. "And we don't know why. She's an unknown right now, which means she's dangerous until proven safe."

Sam was quiet for a moment. "Well it's either the cure or the demon blood. Or both."

"Speaking of demon blood." Dean's voice was grim, and his chair scraped on the ground as he pushed away from the table. Sam's footsteps rushed after him as he stalked down the hall and opened a few doors.

"Hello, boys." There was a smile in Crowley's voice that made Nell's stomach twist. "Where's our lady friend?" There was a fleshy smack and a faint noise of pain and surprise. "Well. Good morning to you, too."

"What did you do?" Dean growled, voice low and dangerous.

"I take it your little cure didn't work," Crowley said, as if he was guessing. Nell supposed he didn't want the Winchesters to know he and Nell could hear each other. His words earned him another harsh blow, and he grunted quietly.

"What did you do?!" Dean demanded, voice rising.

"Weren't you paying attention?" Crowley teased lightly. "I fed her my blood. I thought it was rather clever, myself."

Another smack, then Dean asked, "What happens when a vampire drinks demon blood?"

Crowley chuckled. "No idea." He sounded genuinely delighted by this, even though his words earned him another punch.

Nell thought, almost wistfully, that all this violence would surely have drawn blood by now. In his mouth, smearing his teeth, dripping down his chin… Catching herself fantasizing about it, Nell pinched herself and refocused on the conversation.

"What do you mean, 'no idea'?" Sam asked, disbelieving.

"I mean I don't  _know_ , Moose." There was a rattling of chains. Nell imagined Crowley was leaning back in his chair, as much as he was able with his restraints. "Demons don't make a habit of dealing with vampires. Their souls don't go to Hell when they die, after all. In all my time and research—and I did quite a bit, looking for the Alphas—I've never heard of a vampire drinking demon blood." More rattling chains. "What a grand experiment we've all embarked on."

"Experiment?" Sam repeated. "She's a—" He stopped abruptly.

"A human being?" Crowley completed sweetly. "Not anymore, I'm afraid. And what are  _you_ complaining about, Moose? You were all gung-ho about turning her when you heard she was getting ready to kick the bucket."

Sam was quiet for a moment. "Yeah. Yeah, I was." He sounded curious, wondering. "So why were you? Why turn her, why feed her your blood?"

A rattle of chains. Nell imagined Crowley shrugging carelessly. "Curiosity? Entertainment? Some small, petty revenge on my jailors? Take your pick."

"I don't think that's it." There was a rustle of clothing. "I think, deep down, you didn't want her to die."

"What?" Dean's voice was dismissive. "Sam, come on."

"Listen to your brother, Moose. You're talking nonsense."

"Am I?" Sam huffed lightly. "I don't think so. I think all that human blood still has some effect on you. Makes you  _feel_  things. So you tried to get us to let her turn, distracting us with her illness, and when that didn't work, you took matters into your own hands. Not curiosity, not an experiment. Human sympathy. Weakness."

"Shut up," Crowley nearly growled it, but despite his efforts to sound intimidating, his voice cracked a little bit.

Sam sighed. "Come on, Dean." The brothers' footsteps moved towards the door.

"What, is that it?" There was a strain in Crowley's voice Nell couldn't place.

"Yep," Sam said, brightly. "You don't have anymore useful information for us. Maybe the Men of Letters have something on vampires drinking blood from non-humans."

There was a click as Crowley's jaw shut, and the brothers closed the door behind them. They walked down the hall, back toward the kitchen. Behind them, unheard to their ears, there was a loud clatter, a rattle of chains, and a heaving sigh.

Nell puzzled over what she'd heard, trying to make sense of it. There was the mystery of Crowley's motivations, of course, but Nell wasn't confident she'd ever understand a demon's reasoning for doing something. Maybe Crowley simply liked chaos.

No, what she couldn't figure out was, "Human blood?"

Crowley hissed out a long, slow breath. "Heard all that, did you?"

"I hear just about everything now, thanks to you." When Crowley remained stubbornly silent, Nell pressed, "What was Sam talking about?"

Reluctantly, Crowley began, "Sam Winchester almost…  _cured_  me."

"I'm sensing a trend."

Crowley huffed a short breath at that. "Not the same. Curing a demon involves injecting them with purified human blood. Every hour, on the hour, for eight hours." There was something like trauma in Crowley's tone. "Dear Samuel stopped just after round seven."

"Why'd he stop?" Sam and Dean both seemed more inclined to beat and kill Crowley than to cure him, but Nell didn't understand why Sam would go through all the trouble to start such a process and then stop before he finished.

"Because the ritual was killing him, apparently. Lucky for me, he stopped.  _Un_ lucky for me, there are… side effects."

 _Human sympathy,_ Sam had said.  _Weakness._

"Is that why you did it?" Nell didn't need to specify. Crowley's chains rattled, but Nell couldn't guess what sort of motion he was making.

"What can I say?" Crowley's voice was rough. "Misery loves company."

* * *

"Hey."

Nell peeked an eye open. Sam stood in the doorway, looking sheepish and holding a small cooler in his hand. Nell had heard him approach, of course, his heavy footfalls and steady heartbeat giving away his presence, but it was the first time in a day either of the brothers had visited since they'd slaked her initial thirst and locked her in the bedroom.

"Hey," she echoed, pushing herself up on the bed slowly as Sam clicked the door shut behind him.

Sam took a few steps and stopped, lifting the cooler. "I, uh, brought you some food." Nell raised an eyebrow, and Sam cleared his throat, setting the cooler down on the bedside table. "Pig's blood."

"Yum." Nell stood and crossed to the cooler, opening it to see a large plastic container of dark red liquid and a disposable plastic cup. Hefting the container of chilled liquid, Nell shot Sam a curious look. "What does the butcher think you're doing with all of this?"

Sam huffed a little. "You know, I came up with a whole story about making blood sausage. I even looked up recipes—but he didn't even ask."

"I'm sure there are lots of legitimate uses for this much blood. Blood sausage, dumping on high school girls at prom…" Nell joked as she pried the lid off the plastic container, but wrinkled her nose in disgust as the smell of the blood hit her.

"That bad, huh?" Sam had been watching her reaction carefully, and Nell frowned, nose still scrunched as she poured a generous serving of the blood. Chilled as it was, it glooped slowly into the plastic cup.

"Let's just say I hope it doesn't taste as bad as it smells." Warily, Nell lifted the cup to her lips. Her fangs hadn't descended, though her stomach panged with mild hunger and her throat itched with thirst. Closing her eyes, she sipped.

Sam winced as Nell gagged into the cup, pulling it away from her face immediately and sticking out her tongue in disgust. "That bad?"

"Worse."

It was foul, and slimy, and cold. Her gag reflex, so elusive when she needed it a day ago, was now insisting that Nell  _should not_  drink this.

But it was blood, and it was what Nell would have to get used to if she didn't want to get her head chopped off. Determined, Nell plugged her nose with one hand, closed her eyes, and knocked back the chilled blood as quickly as possible. She shuddered in disgust, but as vile as it tasted, it did ease the twisting ache that had begun to return to her stomach. Grimacing, Nell poured another glass.

Sam watched all this with barely restrained curiosity, and a hint of some darker discontent lingering at the corner of his eyes. At Nell's questioning, slightly self-conscious look, he said quickly, "Sorry." He glanced away as Nell chugged another glass. When she shuddered, again, he asked, "Is it really that bad?"

Nell set the cup back on the desk and turned to Sam, pursing her lips as she tried to figure out a way to phrase it that would make sense to him. "Dean's blood," she began slowly, "was like… hot chocolate on a cold winter night. This stuff?" She glanced back at the dark liquid in the container. "Cherry cough syrup."

Sam winced, then looked thoughtful. Hesitantly, he asked, "And… Crowley's?"

Nell turned away, jaw working as her teeth ached just at the thought of it. Telling Sam exactly what Crowley's blood had tasted like, the euphoria she'd experienced from the few drops, felt too personal. Embarrassing.

"Better than hot chocolate," she said finally.

Sam, sensing her discomfort, let the subject drop, though her reaction had clearly intrigued him. "Maybe it'll be better if we warm it up first next time," he offered, changing the subject.

"Maybe." Nell didn't hold out much hope for that, though.

Sam shifted. "We, uh, met some 'vegetarian' vampires a couple years ago who fed on livestock. They said it was disgusting, and they needed more blood that way, but at least they weren't hurting anybody."

Nell frowned. "What happened to them?"

"What?" Sam looked surprised, and a little evasive.

"You used past tense," Nell pointed out patiently. "They  _weren't_  hurting anybody, not they  _aren't_." The look on Sam's face told her this phrasing was not a mistake, though it seemed he wished she'd overlooked it.

"It's complicated." At Nell's deeply unimpressed look, Sam reluctantly explained, "There was this… mother of monsters, called Eve, who called out to all the vampires. Her call was pretty much irresistible, even for them, and all but one of them went to her, giving up on animal blood." Sam's voice was mournful.

"And the one who was left?"

"Lenore," Sam said, quietly. "The leader of the nest. She said she'd rather die than give in to Eve's call."

Nell swallowed, able to complete the end of that story without prompting. "What about Eve? Do I have to worry about—"

"No," Sam interrupted firmly. "No, Eve is dead."

Well at least that was good news. Which reminded her… "I have a few questions for you. Dozens of questions, actually, now that I think about it." She glanced at the door, hearing the distant sounds of flipping pages and clattering keys on a laptop. "Do you have time?"

"Yeah, sure, of course." Sam pulled up the chair from the shattered desk and sat, his ridiculously long legs sticking out and making it seem like the perfectly-ordinary chair was intended for children. The desk would have been a more appropriate seat for his height, but it was completely unsalvageable.

Nell retreated to her bed, sitting on the edge, facing him. "I think I know the answer to this one already, but: can vampires sleep?"

"No." Sam looked a little apologetic.

Nell sighed, but nodded. "Human food?"

Sam frowned. "I'm not sure what would happen if you tried. You wouldn't get any nutrition from it…" A line appeared between his brows as he thought. "I'm actually not sure what the state of your digestive system is, how it works now."

Potentially worth exploring. Nell made a mental note. "Alcohol?"

Sam shrugged. "Same answer."

"And right when I could really use a drink." Nell sighed, then braced herself for Sam's answer to her next question. "What about sunlight? I remember Dean said it wouldn't kill me, but…"

"It won't," Sam said, reassuring. "It's more like a really severe sunburn. But I've seen vampires out in the day before, so I think if you put on enough sunblock and stick to the shade you should be okay."

"Huh." That was… better than she was expecting. She didn't think she could live with this whole 'vampire' thing if she'd never be able to watch another sunset again.

Sam continued rattling off vampire facts, unprompted. "You're not susceptible to garlic, crosses, or holy water, and you can't be killed with a stake to the heart. The only way to kill a vampire for sure is to cut its head off. They can also be tranquilized, sort of, if you inject them with dead man's blood."

Nell stared. "I take it that's not an artful name for some sort of magic potion."

"Nope." Sam agreed. "Literally a dead man's blood."

"Good to know, I guess…" Nell sat up straighter as another question occurred to her. "How do you know all of this, anyway? Are you vampire hunters?" Then, with dawning horror, "Are vampire hunters a thing I need to worry about?"

"Woah, calm down." Sam put his hands up. The gesture was probably intended to seem non-threatening, but Sam was a giant and his hands were enormous, so it wasn't terribly effective. "There are vampire hunters, but you shouldn't have to worry about them as long as you don't hurt anybody. Me and Dean, we hunt vampires, werewolves… stuff you've never even heard of. If there are monsters out there hurting people, we hunt them."

"But only if they hurt people?" Nell clarified, feeling cold and small.

"Only if they hurt people," Sam reassured her. Despite his size and the memory of how swiftly and efficiently he could decapitate someone, Nell believed him, and relaxed a little.

"Angels and demons are real, too?" Nell asked, remembering. "And God?"

"God exists, but he's gone," Sam said, as casually as if he was telling her a restaurant had closed down. "Demons—yeah, you've met Crowley. And—" Sam furrowed his brow. "How'd you know about angels?"

Nell blinked at him. "I heard Dean and Kevin talking about them in the kitchen this morning."

"In the—" He looked to the door, then back to Nell, eyebrows climbing towards his hairline. "You heard that from here?"

"I can hear  _everything_ ," Nell said simply, frowning. "Is that not typical?"

Sam frowned thoughtfully. "I guess it is," he said slowly. "I mean, I know vampires can hear a heartbeat from, like, a block away. Makes sense…" He trailed off, then asked, a little blood rushing to his face, " _Everything?_ "

Nell couldn't help snickering at the look on his face. "I haven't heard anything embarrassing... yet. You might want to spread the word to put some music on if you want… 'alone time'."

Sam planted his face in his hand, looking caught between embarrassment and exasperation. "I'll tell Dean." With a sigh, he stood, glancing back at the blood. "I'll just leave this here for you, I guess. Is there anything else you need, or want?..."

"A book would be nice. Or…" Nell trailed off before she could request her computer. "Did one of you drive my car up from the Grand Canyon?"

Sam shook his head. "We didn't have time. Didn't want to draw any more attention."

"What day is it?" He told her, and Nell cursed. "Can you go get it? How far are we from the Grand Canyon?"

"A full day's drive, why?"

"Sam." Nell did her best to rein in the impatience which crept into her tone. "Firstly, I thought I was going to die on this trip, and I sold nearly everything I owned before I left. That car and the contents of that camper constitute  _all_  of my earthly possessions, and most of my money. More importantly, if it's not removed from the campsite before noon tomorrow, the park rangers will know that I never checked out, and have gone missing." Panic was making her chest tight. "Please, Sam. It is quite literally all I have left. Please don't let it become evidence."

Sam pursed his lips thoughtfully, looking between Nell, the door, and the still mostly-full container of blood on the desk. Finally he sighed. "Okay. Okay, Dean and I will go get your car. If we leave now we can make it back by tomorrow afternoon, probably. You just… stay in here, okay?"

Sam left, locking the door behind him, and stalked quickly down the hall to convince Dean to go get her car. It took a few minutes of reasoning, but eventually Dean gave in, bellowing down the hall to Kevin that they'd be gone until tomorrow and not to burn the bunker down while they were out.

Kevin grumbled a tired, "yeah, yeah" and returned to his scribbling and mumbling in his room. The brothers' booted feet tromped up a set of stairs and out of the bunker, the door slamming shut behind them. Distantly, she heard the rumble of their car's engine as they pulled away.

Sighing, Nell flopped back on the bed. Sam had forgotten to bring her a book.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all. So, full disclosure, this story has gotten REALLY LONG and I'm not proofreading the chapters very thoroughly before I post them. So apologies if there are mistakes. I almost posted this with some of the dialogue still in draft form because I foolishly trusted myself when I marked this chapter as 'finished' in my folder...

Nell was bored.

The bare room had nothing in the way of entertainment. She had nothing to read, not even so much as a deck of cards to play solitaire with. Since Kevin's activity was restricted to scribbling, nonsensical mumbling, and the occasional shuffle to the kitchen to refill his cup of coffee, she couldn't even entertain herself by eavesdropping.

Nell was actually starting to get a little worried for the kid. She hadn't heard him eat or sleep at all since she'd been listening, which couldn't be healthy. Not if he was human, anyway. His heart beat audibly, and Sam hadn't mentioned him being something else, so Nell guessed he probably was.

There was always Crowley, but Nell was reluctant to start another conversation with him. If nothing else, he deserved the silent treatment just for sabotaging the vampire cure. There was also the fact that he was a demon, and he had tried to charm her first into trading him her soul and then into breaking him out of the dungeon. Nell hadn't been tempted by either suggestion even for a second, but Nell wasn't particularly interested in finding out if Crowley would be able to wear her down over time.

Instead, she tried to distract herself any way she knew how. She stretched and did some yoga, trying to relax. To Nell's surprise, it was easier than ever before. Her strength, balance, and flexibility had improved so dramatically that the exercise was a little lackluster, leaving her neither sore nor tired, no matter what she attempted.

She choked down some more blood. She meditated. She tried to brush the blood and dirt from her hair with her hands. Finally, when the silence and boredom was driving her crazy, she sang.

She had avoided it thus far because Crowley would doubtlessly hear her, but she was beyond caring by then. It had been hours, and without the option of sleeping her boredom away, she would put up with any snarky comments from the demon. At least then she wouldn't be so damn bored.

She started with all the Beatles songs she knew, and sure enough, Nell had scarcely finished Blackbird before Crowley commented. "Listen to you. Less than a day to yourself and you're already singing like a canary." Crowley sighed, as if in disappointment. "Will you be taking requests?"

Instead of responding directly, Nell began a new tune. "You walked in to the party, like you were walking onto a yacht…"

Crowley scoffed, clearly recognizing the opening line of  _You're So Vain_. He didn't talk over her, though, so Nell continued. She was eventually interrupted mid-chorus—but not by Crowley.

Nell's voice cut off abruptly, turning to look at the door as it creaked slowly open. The young man in the doorway could only be the elusive Kevin. She hadn't noticed the sound of his footsteps in the hallway over the sound of her own voice, and now he stood in the doorway, watching her, hand still lingering on the doorknob.

He was young, as Nell had guessed, though he looked older than he sounded. His skin was sallow, his hair greasy, and his face rough with patchy stubble. There were deep purple bags under his dark eyes, evidence of his lack of sleep. He studied her impassively from the doorway, though his heart beat a little quicker than usual, betraying his nerves.

"So you're the vampire, huh," he said finally. His voice was rough. Nell winced, feeling exhausted just looking at him.

"I'm the vampire," She agreed, though it still felt odd to refer to herself as such. She figured she'd get used to the term over time. After all, she hadn't felt like an adult the moment she'd turned 18, either. Vampirism, like adulthood, would probably take some time to get accustomed to. "Nell McNamara." She left off 'pleasure to meet you,' because she doubted the circumstances which brought the kid to this bunker were any more pleasant than hers.

"Kevin Tran," he said shortly. He watched her warily for a long moment before asking, tiredly, "What's with the singing?"

If Nell were still capable, she might've blushed. She coughed, feeling awkward at having been overheard. "Sorry if I disturbed you. I asked Sam for a book, but he left without bringing me one." Nell gestured at the bare, empty room. "And I can't sleep anymore, so... I got bored."

Kevin's shoulders relaxed a little bit, though he still seemed wary. His gaze had lingered for a long moment on the splintered remains of the desk in the corner. "I heard Crowley did this to you."

"Well, Sam helped." It was a poor attempt at a joke, but Kevin's lips didn't so much as twitch. Taking in his tense jaw and shadowed eyes, Nell frowned. "What did Crowley do to  _you_?"

Kevin's jaw worked silently as he considered his answer. " _Everything_."

The word was loaded with so much anger and sorrow and disappointment that Nell could nearly taste it on the air. Unsure what to do in the face of such raw emotion, she asked, hesitantly, "... You want to talk about it?"

It turned out to be less of a  _want_  and more a  _need_ , and less of a talk than a rant. It was like Kevin was a soda bottle that had been thoroughly shaken, and Nell's question had loosened the top just enough that his emotions came bubbling out in a spectacular eruption.

It was extremely difficult to follow. Nell managed to gather that he was a prophet, and that meant that he was apparently the only one on earth able to translate the 'word of God', a term the kid used almost interchangeably with the word 'tablet.' He had apparently been kidnapped a good half dozen times in the space of a few years, most of the time by Crowley.

Kevin spat the demon's name every time he came up, and Nell couldn't much blame him for it, considering that, in addition to all the kidnapping, Crowley had murdered Kevin's girlfriend, possessed his mother, tortured Kevin himself, and then finally tried to murder him before being stopped at the last second by something or someone called 'Metatron.'

Through the lengthy, rambling story, Nell kept silent. Not that she didn't have questions. She did—many questions. But since the point of this tirade was more to provide Kevin some sort of cathartic release than it was to truly enlighten her, Nell swallowed her questions about angels and Heaven and tablets and let the kid wear himself out.

"And now here I am, busting my ass over this angel tablet, trying to figure out a way to let the angels back into heaven, while the guy who made my life a living  _hell_ is sitting just a few rooms away!" Chest heaving, Kevin fell silent at last. He looked drained, and sweaty, as if he'd just run a mile, but still significantly less tense and angry than he had when he'd begun.

Rather than commenting on his tale—she had no idea what one  _could_  say in response to a story like that—she instead asked lightly, "Feeling better?"

Kevin had the grace to look a little embarrassed about sort-of shouting his life story at a near-stranger, and scrubbed a hand across his face. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it." Nell eyed Kevin's pallor critically. "When was the last time you had something to eat?" Kevin's eyes drifted toward the ceiling, like he had to think about his response, and Nell sighed, shaking her head and standing.

Slowly, so Kevin could back away if he was uncomfortable or scared, Nell walked past him to the open door. Kevin let her pass, more curious than wary as he followed her down the plain hallway to where she knew the kitchen was located. He hovered in the doorway, clearly puzzled, as Nell opened and closed cabinets, locating pans and ingredients.

"What are you doing?" Kevin asked at last, voice thick and tired. He looked even worse in the fluorescent lights of the kitchen.

" _I_ am making grilled cheese and soup." It was just about the only thing Nell could manage, considering how bare the pantry was in this place. " _You_  are going to eat it, and then you're going to get some sleep."

It took a few seconds for her words to process. When they finally did, Kevin looked mutinous. "I can't just go to sleep." He glanced back down the hallway, expression equal parts longing and loathing. "I need to get back to the tablet."

Nell ignored his protests. She figured he didn't really mean them, considering he was still standing in the doorway rather than walking away. It took some trial and error, but she eventually managed to light the old stove and start heating a pan while she constructed a cheese sandwich and heated a can of tomato soup.

"You look half-dead," she said, buttering the bread, "and that's coming from the only person in this bunker who doesn't have a heartbeat." Kevin was still hovering uncertainly, so she nodded to a nearby table and chair. "Sit."

Kevin watched her as she prepared the food. Or maybe just stared in her direction with glassy eyes, Nell thought. He seemed almost too tired to function. Within ten minutes Nell presented him with a gooey grilled cheese and a steaming bowl of creamy tomato soup. At her expectant look, Kevin hesitantly tucked into it, spooning up soup with awkward, mechanical motions. Nell watched, part satisfied, part jealous.

Food smelled the same, but different. She still recognized the smell of melting cheese, toasted bread, and hot soup. It was still pleasant… but it wasn't  _appetizing_. It was a little like the feeling Nell had had on occasion at Thanksgiving: she ate so much delicious food and was so overly full and content that she couldn't even be tempted by another slice of pie.

And yet, she wasn't full. Nell could feel the endless hunger in her gut, always hovering at the back of her mind. It wasn't a lack of hunger. It was just that this stuff, no matter how nice it smelled, wasn't food to her any longer.

Not that she hadn't tried. Nell had experimentally put a bit of bread in her mouth while she cooked, chewing thoughtfully, and had to discreetly spit it out. It wasn't so much  _disgusting_ as it was… tasteless. Wrong, somehow, like she'd bitten into a wax fruit.

Kevin eventually noticed the mournful look Nell was giving his sandwich, and he paused, swallowing loudly and looking almost guilty. "You miss it?"

Nell's lips twisted. "If I'd known it was going to be my last meal, I would have eaten something better than beef jerky and some energy bars." It was a bitter memory, now. Scarfing down a quick, utilitarian meal right before setting off into the woods after the man who ended up nearly killing her. Or succeeded in killing her, she supposed, depending on how she looked at it.

"Sorry." Kevin hesitated, half-eaten sandwich hanging over his soup.

"Eat it," Nell encouraged. Voiced dry, she added, "Watching you enjoy it is as close as I can come to eating it myself, now, anyway."

Kevin shrugged in acceptance and wolfed down the rest of the sandwich. Wordlessly, Nell rose and cooked up another one on the still-hot pan, returning with another sandwich that Kevin scarfed down just as quickly. When both sandwiches were gone and the last drop of soup had been drained from the bowl, Kevin's eyes started drooping of their own accord.

Nell ushered him down the hall and into the bed in his room, flicking off the light and ignoring his half-hearted protests that he should get back to work. He was asleep before Nell even made it all the way back down the hall. When she reached her own door, she paused, considering.

She'd already broken the rules by leaving her room. With Kevin asleep, she couldn't even lock herself back in. The damage was already done, and if the Winchesters would know she'd left her room no matter what, she figured she might as well get something to read before returning.

She walked back to the library she'd spied from the kitchen and browsed the many leather-bound volumes. There were dozens of old, bizarrely titled history texts, and more than a few treatises on creatures she'd never even heard of, but after some searching she managed to find a few texts on vampires that appeared to be mostly written in plain English. She pulled these from the shelf, returned to her room, and settled in to read.

It didn't take long for Nell to regret her choice of reading material.

She had been hoping to find out more information on what she was, what she could do, what her limitations were… and she did find out. But in addition to the more clinical information on the sensitivity of vampires' senses and how fast they could run at top speed, Nell found case studies. Biographies.

Hundreds and hundreds of vampires, each and every one of them monstrous.

It was difficult to look at the pictures and descriptions in the books and think that she was the same as these monsters. When she could see their eyes, they were empty, dark. Completely devoid of guilt or compassion. They hunted without a care for the consequences. They were unintelligent, almost mindless, all in the pursuit of blood.

That was the most terrifying thing. Killing people, drinking their blood, all of that was bad enough, but it was the  _mindlessness_  of it all that gave Nell chills.

All her life, the sort of monster Nell had always feared most were zombies. Slasher films, swamp monsters, creepy ghosts, all of that she could handle, but zombies? The idea of being eaten, consumed, and then slowly losing control until she was no longer herself, until she was nothing more than mindless hunger, careless about whether she ate her own family or little children… that had always scared her the most.

Some of the vampires in the books were more intelligent, more thoughtful than others, but even then it always came down to blood. Always blood.

There was no mention at all of 'vegetarian' vampires. Nell didn't know if it was simply because they were so rare, or if they weren't worth mentioning because, inevitably, they would all turn back to their inner natures. To being monsters.

Nell made it through one book and was part-way through another before the Winchester brothers came back. Kevin was still snoring softly when Nell heard the rumble of the Impala and her own Outback, and Nell winced at the noise as the brothers returned, slamming doors and hollering a loud "We're back!" down the hall. Nell listened carefully for a moment to see if Kevin would wake at the noise, but he merely murmured and burrowed deeper into his blankets.

Nell wondered how long it would take them to figure out she'd left her room, and how pissed they would be. Sam was still tromping down the stairs—from the rustling of fabric and heft of his steps she guessed he was carrying something—when Dean's booted steps halted in front of the kitchen.

"Dude, did Kevin actually eat?" A few more hesitant steps, then, disbelieving, "Did Kevin  _cook_?"

Sam seemed to ignore Dean's comments, continuing down the hall to Nell's room. His footsteps stopped abruptly outside the door, his breath catching in surprise. Nell, sighing, put her book aside and faced the door.

It took a moment before Sam slowly pushed the door open, a long, wicked-looking knife held ready in one hand. If Nell had a beating heart, it might have jumped in panic. As it was, she held up her hands, slowly.

"Easy there, Sam," Nell said softly, struggling to look at his face and not the knife. "No need to jump to head chopping."

"Why is your door unlocked?" Sam demanded, voice flat. The expression on his face was hard and distant, and Nell got the very uncomfortable feeling that he was distancing himself emotionally, in case he had to kill her.

"Kevin unlocked it," Nell said quickly, hands still up and incredibly thankful that Sam hadn't come any closer. "On his own, I might add. I didn't ask him to."

Sam did not relax. "Where's Kevin? What did you do?" Dean, apparently having heard Sam's interrogation, had tromped down the hall to hover over Sam's shoulder. He looked more curious than anything, which eased the tiniest bit of tension in Nell's stomach.

"He's asleep in his room still, if your shouting hasn't woken him," Nell tipped her head down the hall in the direction of Kevin's still-relaxed breathing. "He came in to talk, had a bit of a rant, and emotionally exhausted himself, so I made him some food and put him to bed."

"You actually got him to sleep?" Dean had completely relaxed now, and even looked reluctantly impressed.

"Dean, go check on Kevin," Sam ordered, gaze never leaving Nell's face, knife still at the ready.

"Dude, come on. There's dishes in the sink, and it's not like she made  _herself_  a grilled cheese." Sam shot Dean a venomous look and he relented. "Okay, sheesh, fine." Sam stared at Nell distrustfully while Dean tromped down the hall, opened Kevin's door, and entered. After a few moments he exited again, the door clicking shut softly, and Dean returned. "Kevin's fine. No bite marks—and frankly, looking better than he has in days."

And just like that, the cold distance fled Sam's eyes. He breathed a long sigh of relief, lowering the knife with a shake of his head. When he turned back to look at Nell, he even looked halfway-apologetic.

"Sorry. I just saw the lock open, and if we'd left you here and anything had happened to Kevin…"

"I understand." And she really did, after reading through the books. No wonder they didn't trust her, if that's what vampires were like.

Dean coughed, and Sam jolted a bit. "Uh, right." Sam stepped out of the doorway for a moment, and when he came back into view the knife was gone and he had a familiar duffle bag in his hands. "I grabbed some of your things. There's a bathroom down the hall, if you want—"

" _Yes_." Nell didn't bother to hide her enthusiasm. She was still wearing the same clothes she'd worn in the Grand Canyon, covered in dirt and her own dried blood. It was awful, and uncomfortable, and Nell couldn't wait to be clean. She didn't even think twice about the wisdom of running full-speed towards a vampire hunter who'd just been threatening her with a knife—the bag was in her hand and she was down the hallway in the space of a few seconds,

The shower was bliss. It was old and dated, with yellowed tiles and pipes that groaned and squeaked, but the water was hot, and that was all that mattered. The heat that seeped into her chilled skin was simply wonderful, and she was finally able to rid herself of the blood and grime that still clung to her skin and hair. Nell hadn't even realized how much tension she'd held in her neck and shoulders until she began to relax under the hot spray. When she emerged from the bathroom nearly an hour later, curls still damp and dressed in a clean dress, she felt as refreshed as if she'd just slept for a full day.

When she returned to her room, she found Dean sitting on her bed, one of the books she'd borrowed propped open on one knee. "I see you found the library."

He didn't seem at all bothered by her having the books, so Nell didn't apologize. Stepping further into the room, she saw that he'd picked up one of the books she'd left open, displaying a handful of particularly gruesome pictures. Dean simply watched her, seeming to be waiting for her to say something.

It didn't take long for Nell to voice the question that had been plaguing her for hours now. "Is that going to happen to me?" There was no need to elaborate what  _that_  meant. Nell's eyes flickered to the bloody pictures on the page, then away, twisting the fingers of her right hand into her left sleeve, continuing, "When the cure didn't work, you both seemed so surprised…"

Dean still said nothing. "Is this—" Nell gestured at herself vaguely, "—temporary? Am I going to lose my mind, and—" She didn't want to finish the sentence, eyes falling on the book once again.

Finally, Dean spoke. "...I don't know."

It was an honest answer, but not at all the one Nell had wanted to hear. She shuddered, turning away from Dean and the book, feeling suddenly cold despite the lingering heat from the shower.

"I should have just died." It had taken Nell a long time to accept the inevitable consequence of her illness, to accept that she'd die before she even hit 35, but either a slow death from cancer or a violent one on a forest floor would be better than becoming…  _that_.

Dean shut the book with a sigh. "Look, we don't know if that'll ever happen." Nell glanced at him doubtfully. He looked serious, but it was difficult for Nell to accept his word when he'd shown an above-average capacity for denial in the short time she'd known him so far. "Maybe it won't. We've known other vampires who went years without ever drinking blood, and they were as close to normal as you could get."

The 'vegetarians'. There was only one problem with that.

"But they all broke eventually, didn't they?" Dean's head tilted back minutely and he blinked, seemingly trying to mask surprise. "Sam told me what happened to Lenore's nest."

"Lenore never broke." But that wasn't a particularly good example, and Nell could tell Dean knew it, too.

"No," Nell agreed. "She died instead." Nell sat heavily on her bed a few feet away from Dean, lips twisting. "Have you ever watched a zombie movie where someone gets bit, and then tries to hide it?"

"You mean  _every_ zombie movie?" Dean asked without missing a beat, eyebrow raised.

A smile flickered and died on Nell's lips before she continued her thought. "I always wanted to believe that if I was ever in that situation, I'd be the kind of person who has enough decency to put a bullet in my brain before I ever put anyone else in danger. But now…" Nell shrugged helplessly, searching out Dean's eyes. He, more than anyone, would be the one to know, "Do monsters even realize they're monsters?"

Dean looked over at her, expression grave and searching. His eyes were a pale green, and for a moment seemed to look straight through her. Then he blinked, and the intensity receded. He shrugged.

"I figure as long as you're still asking yourself that question, you'll be okay."

Dean stood. He made an aborted motion with the book, like he was going to toss it on the desk, before seeing and remembering that Nell had demolished it. With a huff, he tossed it onto the bed beside Nell instead and crossed to the door, where he tapped on the doorframe. "You've got free run of the bunker so long as Sam or me are awake to keep an eye on you. You want the tour?"

It was more freedom to roam than Nell had anticipated, and she nodded quickly, following Dean out the door and down the hallway. "You already found the kitchen, and the library, so we'll start down here."

"Where  _is_  here, anyway?" Nell asked, craning her neck to better take in the concrete walls and ceiling. "How does one even acquire a  _bunker_?"

"It's a long story. Short version is, Sam and I are like the last living members of a secret society of monster-hunters that got wiped out in the 50's."

"One day I would very much like to hear the long version of that story."

"Yeah, maybe." Dean changed the subject, pointing out his and Sam's bedrooms before showing her the more functional spaces: a firing range, a dated-looking exercise room, and a small medical bay which connected to some kind of lab full of dusty test tubes, beakers, and jars. He glossed over the storage room, though Nell knew from experience that there was another door within which led to the dungeon, still occupied by Crowley.

Finishing the lower floor, Dean led her up a set up stairs in the library. "That door leads out," Dean said, passing it without a second glance, "and last but not least,  _this_  door leads to the best room in the place."

Dean opened the door with an air of deep satisfaction.

"It's a garage."

The classic black car with Winchesters drove was there, as was Nell's Outback and teardrop-shaped camper trailer. There were a few other cars with dusty sheets draped over them, as well as a classic-looking motorcycle.

"Hell yeah it's a garage." Dean seemed entirely unaffected by Nell's lack of appreciation for the space. "You ever seen the Wizard of Oz?"

The question was so out of left field it took Nell a moment to process it and answer. "Yes?"

Dean nodded to the motorcycle, a smug smirk tugging at his lips. "That's Dorothy's."

"Now you're just fucking with me."

"I'm dead serious," Dean insisted, but he was still smirking, so Nell didn't believe him for a second.

"Yeah, sure you are." Nell turned away from the garage and towards the stairs, intent on enjoying her newfound freedom more thoroughly. She called over her shoulder, "Thanks for the tour."

There was noise coming from the kitchen as Nell descended the stairs, so Nell headed there first. Sam stood at the sink with his back to her. Leaning in the doorway, Nell asked, "Is the Wizard of Oz real?"

Sam must have heard her approach, because he didn't jump. He did turn, though, with a thoughtful sort of frown on his face. "Uh, kind of. Why?"

" _Seriously_?" At Sam's puzzled look, Nell explained, "Dean told me the motorcycle in the garage belongs to Dorothy. I thought he was pulling my leg."

"It's… kind of a long story." He looked exhausted at the idea of having to tell it, though.

"I'm beginning to think everything is a long story with you two."

Sam huffed a laugh, but there was little humor in it. "You have no idea."

He turned back to the sink, producing a threadbare towel and starting to dry a plate. Watching him, Nell realized that it was the plate she'd used earlier to serve Kevin.

"I could have done those," Nell said, feeling slightly guilty for having left a mess in the first place.

Sam shook his head, though. "It's no problem." He put the plate away in a cabinet, commenting, "It must have been weeks since Kevin ate something other than takeout and Hot Pockets. It's the least I can do."

Nell couldn't contain a grimace. "You know, if you bought something other than beer, whiskey, and white bread, I could produce food fit for human consumption?"

Looking through the cabinets in search of food fit to serve had been a telling look at life in the bunker. Either the Winchesters weren't here much, or they were nearly incapable of cooking for themselves. Possibly both. What was without question was that about 80% of the caloric value of the kitchen's contents was made up of alcohol.

Sam looked appropriately self-conscious in response to Nell's derogatory tone. "You don't have to cook for us."

Nell appreciated his reluctance. It would not be a good picture if he was too easy-going about letting the woman he was holding in his underground bunker cook for him. But still.

"How long are you going to keep me here, Sam?" Nell asked patiently. The tour from Dean and the talks about the provision of blood had made it sound like she would be staying for quite a while, but neither of the Winchesters had ever said so outright.

"Keep—" Sam sputtered, flushing a little. "I'm not— _we're_  not—"

"Really," Nell said dryly, folding her arms. "So I could just hop in my car and drive away, right now, and neither of you would try to stop me?"

Sam opened his mouth, then closed it. Looking apologetic, he dodged answering directly and said, "We have to make sure you're safe. So far as we know there's never been anything like you before… we don't know what's going to happen."

"So I'm going to be here for the foreseeable future," Nell summarized.

Sam coughed. "Uh. Yeah."

"Then for however long this arrangement lasts, I'm happy to cook," Nell said, finally gettin back to her original point. "Consider it payment for the blood you're bringing me, if you want. I really don't think I can describe the irritation I would feel at watching people who still have the capacity to eat real food squander that ability on Burger King and Instant Noodles."

Sam's shoulders hunched inwards at that. His face fell. He made almost uncomfortably-sincere eye contact as he said, quietly, "I'm sorry."

Nell blinked, thrown off for a second at the sudden seriousness on his face. A little confused, she repeated, "Sorry?"

Sam shook his head, looking almost pained. "It's my fault you're like this. If I had been faster, more careful… If I hadn't left you alone with Crowley…"

Ah. So he had latched onto the 'still have the capacity to eat real food' bit. Privately, Nell agreed with what Sam was saying. The situation she was in was almost entirely his fault, and he'd made a number of mistakes along the way. Still, he only seemed to be making them because he cared about her well-being and was trying to help.

So instead of brushing the apology aside, Nell said simply, "You're forgiven."

Sam jerked back a little, like she'd slapped him. The level of disbelief on his face was about equivalent, Nell thought. "Really?"

"Look, I know all  _this…_ " Nell gestured vaguely at herself. "Was an accident. You tried to help. And yeah, I'll admit you fucked it up pretty badly—" Sam flinched a little at this, but Nell ignored it and continued, "—but your heart was in the right place. So, you're forgiven."

Sam was still watching her warily, as if he suspected some sort of trap. Slowly, skeptically, he asked, "You're not… upset?"

" _Of course I'm upset_." It came out louder and harsher than Nell intended, an almost involuntary protest. Sam's eyes widened a little, and Nell drew in a shuddering breath, then released it in a long exhale. With forced calm, she explained, "My life—which I thought would be ending soon, by the way—has been completely turned upside down. I'm now some sort of bloodsucking, immortal monster, living with two  _very_  dangerous men who apparently hunt things like me for a living, who keep a  _demon_  in their  _dungeon_  in their  _underground bunker built by a secret society._ "

Nell's voice had crept up in pitch and volume, and she forced herself to take another deep breath and lower it again. "I am a few straws away from a total meltdown. I am  _upset_." Nell sighed heavily. "But at the situation, Sam. Not with you."

Sam's eyes were still wide, but he seemed to realize, because he coughed awkwardly and seemed to make an effort to arrange his features into something more normal and less alarmed.

"Right. Okay. Uh… thanks."

Nell nodded. A tense, awkward silence descended for a long moment. Nell forced some humor into her voice to break it. "I can't promise that'll remain the same if you don't go grocery shopping soon, though."

"Uh, right. Make a list of what you want, I guess, and I'll pick some stuff up next time I'm out."

Nell began mentally composing a list almost instantly. She turned to fetch pen and paper from the library, but paused in the doorway to ask, "Is there anything you all like, or won't eat? Allergies I should know about?"

"Dean doesn't really do vegetables unless they've been fried, but no allergies..." Sam mused slowly, then winced. "I, uh. Don't really know about Kevin."

"You've lived with him for months, and you don't know if he's allergic to anything." Nell's voice was bland, but the judgment was clear.

"We're not around a lot," Sam defended weakly. "Anyway, I'm pretty sure he's fine with most stuff. I know he's eaten soy, and peanuts…"

"I'll ask him whenever he wakes up," Nell resolved, because the kid seemed determined to sleep for nearly a day straight, and she strongly suspected he'd just start feverishly working again if she woke him for just a moment to ask. Instead she composed a basic list of pantry staples and returned it to Sam within minutes. He raised a skeptical eyebrow at the amount of vegetables on the list, but didn't comment on it.

Late afternoon the same day, the bunker had a clean, well-stocked kitchen, and Nell began washing produce and preheating the oven. Sam, who had procured the groceries and even helped Nell put everything away, hesitated in the kitchen doorway for a long moment.

"Do you need any help?"

Nell looked at her ingredients, the stove, and the already-greased pan, considering. "Yeah, sure." She didn't really, but from the still-guilty, wide-eyed look on Sam's face, he seemed to want to be helpful. "Think you can handle chopping an onion?"

"I think I can manage." He took the kitchen knife and cutting board Nell offered him. His knife work wasn't particularly graceful, and the result was onion pieces of pretty different sizes. Nell didn't remark on the clear evidence that Sam was far more used to using knives as weapons than as kitchen tools, simply accepting the chopped onion and scraping it into a mixing bowl while handing him some garlic cloves to chop. Sam went much slower on these, glancing over frequently to watch Nell's steady hands as she produced thin, even slices of zucchini with every movement of the blade. "Where'd you learn to cook?"

"Trial and error, mostly. Once we turned 13, my parents had me and my brother cook dinner one night a week to help us 'learn independence', but there wasn't a lot of instruction involved." There had been quite a lot of over and under-cooked food in those first few months, before they'd gotten the hang of it.

Sam's knife paused, and he turned his full attention to Nell. He seemed surprised, for some reason. "You've got a brother?"

"Yeah, Will. He's married to a great woman named Katherine, and they have two kids, Jack and Ellie." The last zucchini sliced, Nell set the slices between a few towels and set a pot on top to press out the excess moisture.

Slowly, Sam returned to chopping the garlic. "...Do they know where you are?"

"...No." Nell paused, fingers fisting into the threadbare towel she'd been using to wipe her hands. "I sent them a message from the Grand Canyon, before…" Nell trailed off, leaving 'the whole vampire thing' unsaid. "I told them I was going to keep heading west. It's normal for me not to check in for a while, but I'll have to shoot them another email soon, otherwise they'll probably think I died alone on the road somewhere."

"That was your plan, wasn't it?" Nell was grateful to hear that there was no judgment in Sam's tone, only curiosity.

"Yes." Nell smiled wryly and opened the package of Italian sausage with a little more force than necessary. "...But not so soon."

"What's your plan now?" Sam's voice was almost too light, too casual. Nell wondered if this question was some sort of test, and if so, what answer Sam could possibly be expecting or hoping for. Nell settled for telling him the truth, and hoping it went well.

"I'm not sure." Nell shrugged, dumping onion and garlic into a pan with olive oil and letting the hissing and popping die down before she continued, "It's not like I could just go home and claim to be cured. The medical miracle alone would attract attention, even without the whole unaging, blood-drinking thing." Nell couldn't imagine trying to tell her fervently-Catholic mother the truth. She might actually try to have her exorcised.

"I'm sorry." Sam took a breath, like he was preparing to continue, then let it go in a forceful sigh, shaking his head.

"What?"

"It's…" Sam still looked hesitant to say whatever it was he was thinking out loud, but at Nell's unrelenting stare he gave in. "It's usually best to keep people you care about away from this sort of stuff, anyway. It's not exactly… safe." From the tension around his eyes and the tightness of his voice, Nell could tell he was speaking from experience.

But Nell didn't need the warning. She'd left home weeks ago with the intention of dying on this trip, and in a lot of ways she already had. There was no going back, either way.

"I'll probably send the occasional message for a month or so and then fake my death somehow." Her family would be expecting a body, but she was sure she could find some way to work around that. "I can always stalk them on the internet to make sure they're doing okay, at least."

Searching for a way to change the subject and dissipate the tension that had descended on the kitchen, Nell asked, "Can you stir this? It should be browned, but not burned."

"Yeah, sure." The tension remained. Even as Nell greased a baking pan with olive oil, she could practically see the blanket of guilt draped around Sam's shoulders.

The familiar tromping of Dean's heavy boots was a relief, even as the man himself stopped in the doorway with a small smirk on his face. "Is that garlic?"

Nell jabbed a stern finger in his direction. "Make a vampire joke and you don't get lasagna."

Dean's eyes widened a little, and he snapped his jaw shut and ducked quickly away from the kitchen. Sam laughed lowly from his place at the stove, and Nell smiled, glad that the tension had finally broken.

An hour later, Dean had successfully refrained from any vampire jokes, garlic-related or otherwise, and was happily eating a heaping plateful of lasagna. Nell watched the Winchesters eat, head propped in her hand and musing over the fact that one of her favorite foods now held less than zero appeal to her.

Dean froze after a few bites, swallowing his mouthful of food and staring suspiciously at his fork. "What's this green stuff?"

Sam straightened a little in his seat, apparently interested to see how the revelation would go. Nell didn't beat around the bush. "Zucchini."

"You snuck vegetables into lasagna?" Dean dropped his fork, looking between Nell and Sam, betrayed. "What am I, five?"

"It wasn't some secret plot," Nell said, raising an eyebrow at his reaction. "As for the second question—well, if you're going to  _whine_ like a five year old about a few vegetables…" Nell trailed off suggestively.

Dean glared stubbornly at her for a moment longer, but picked up his fork, shoveling a large bite into his mouth almost defiantly. Grudgingly, around a mouthful of food, he admitted, "S'good."

Less than ten minutes later, after Dean had silently heaped a second helping of food onto his plate, Kevin stumbled down the hallway. He stopped in the doorway and stared for a long moment, then scrubbed at his eyes tiredly with one arm, as if he couldn't decide if he was awake or still dreaming.

Apparently satisfied that, yes, he was indeed awake, he said slowly, "Okay… what'd I miss?"

Dean, who'd been facing away from the doorway, turned at the question. "Oh good, you're awake." He set his fork down and straightened, turning a serious gaze on Kevin. "What did I tell you about opening the door for strange vampires?"

Kevin shrugged, utterly unconcerned about Dean's scolding. Nell rose from the table to make him a plate as he defended, "Sam said she was safe."

Nell huffed a quiet laugh at the ' _But Dad said I could!'_  card. Dean found it less amusing. "Uh huh. And what did  _I_  say?"

"You know, it's really hard to take your lecture seriously when you're talking with your mouth full."

Dean swallowed with effort. "She could have killed you!"

"Well, she didn't," Kevin said, sounding impatient, "So unless you plan on making a habit of bringing vampires into the bunker, I don't really see the point of this conversation."

"Children." Nell exited the kitchen and set the plate down at the table before the argument could escalate any further. "No fighting at the dinner table."

Dean grumbled irritably, but complied, and Kevin sat down gratefully. Before he began to eat, Nell asked for her own peace of mind, "You're not allergic to anything, are you?"

"Uh, yeah," Kevin said, looking surprised, but didn't hesitate in picking up his fork. "But unless you put bananas in this…" He arched an eyebrow skeptically, but waited for her response nonetheless.

She hadn't, but there were some in the kitchen that she'd requested for baking. She'd have to make a note not to use them. "You're all clear."

When all the food was eaten, Sam and Dean cleared the table and started on the dishes, leaving Nell and Kevin alone at the table. After a moment of peaceful silence, Kevin shifted and sighed.

"Hey…" Kevin shifted awkwardly again, but didn't glance away. "Sorry… about earlier. I wasn't exactly… I was just…" Kevin sighed, apparently unable to come up with the right words.

"Don't worry about it," Nell said easily. Everything had worked out alright in the end, and Kevin had clearly needed the rant and the food and the sleep. "I was going a little crazy myself, cooped up in the room with nothing to do."

"Right." Kevin relaxed back into his chair and added dryly, "Thanks for not sucking my blood, I guess."

"You're welcome, I guess," Nell joked back, relishing the small smile it elicited from Kevin.

She wasn't sure what it was—a sense of camaraderie she felt with Kevin, who'd also been roped in unexpectedly and against his will to the dangerous world of supernatural creatures, maybe. Or maybe she'd just been traveling alone for too long. Whatever it was, seeing Kevin smile and relax, joking with Sam and Dean… it warmed something in her chest where her heart used to beat.

A cynical voice in the back of her mind whispered  _Stockholm Syndrome_ , but she quashed it and put the thought out of her mind. At least, she managed to until the hour grew late, and Dean escorted her back to her room to be locked in while he and Sam turned in for the night.

"Just for a while," Dean assured her as she stepped past the doorway, back into the room with the demolished desk and the sweaty, blood-streaked sheets. Nell turned to look at his face, trying to gauge his sincerity.

She was inclined to believe him. But then, she'd been inclined to believe in his and Sam's fake badges, too. So what did she know? Dean started to close the door.

"You know I could take down this door if I wanted?" Nell wasn't sure what prompted her to voice the question—a desire to delay the inevitable, or genuine curiosity. Dean stopped the door mid-swing, eyes sweeping meaningfully between the shattered desk in the corner to Nell's face.

Dean nodded, slowly, but he didn't look concerned. At Nell's raised eyebrows, he said, "Yeah… but not quietly."

And so the door was shut, and Nell was left alone with her thoughts, and memories of wicked knives.

Or, almost alone.

"You were gone a good while," Crowley's voice greeted her mildly before she'd even had a chance to make herself comfortable. "How was the walkabout? What does it feel like to stretch your legs? I've nearly forgotten."

Nell began stripping off the filthy bedsheets before she answered, figuring that she could at least fashion a comfortable sort of recliner for herself using sheets and pillows so she wasn't stuck sitting in a wooden desk chair all night. "What, weren't you listening?"

Crowley sighed a little, as if disappointed. "My hearing is keen, but it's not  _vampire_  keen. Frankly, I'm surprised I can hear you so well... I imagine it's some coincidence of air vents that connects your room to the dungeon."

Interesting thought. Maybe she'd ask Sam and Dean tomorrow if she could relocate.

"You found the escape route yet?" Crowley asked hopefully.

Nell rolled her eyes. "What on earth makes you think I'd help you escape?"

"What, you're on Team Winchester already?" Crowley asked incredulously. "Really? You're a prisoner here, too, you know, roaming privileges or no. You're awfully quick to trust the men whose fault it is you're in here."

Nell fluffed her pillows with perhaps a little more force than necessary. "Are you including yourself in that number?"

"I never pretended to be a good guy," Crowley said quietly. "I'm always out for my own interests. It's reliable. It's something you can count on. Now, the Winchesters?  _They're_ unpredictable." Crowley paused, seemingly for dramatic effect. "They say they're the good guys, and yes, granted, they've saved the world a time or two. But they've left an awful long trail of bodies behind them in the process, and if you're not careful you'll be the latest."

Nell let his words hang in the air for a moment, considering. Then, curious, "Were you rehearsing that little speech the whole time I was gone?"

"You don't believe me?" Crowley sounded unsurprised and unbothered. "Fine. Don't. Believe Kevin. Or better yet, Carver Edlund."

Nell racked her brain for a moment, trying to place the name, but it was utterly unfamiliar. "Who?"

"Carver Edlund," Crowley repeated lowly. "The prophet before Kevin. He wrote the "Winchester gospels"—or, as they're known in the discount bins of America's bookshops, the  _Supernatural_  book series. Details all the Winchesters' messy exploits."

"You're joking." Because he had to be, right? Vampires, demons, the Wizard of Oz—all of that was weird enough. But this was too strange to believe. Then again, it was also oddly specific… he'd even given her the author's name.

"I'm not," Crowley said, soft, satisfied. "Darling, when I lie to you, I assure you it won't be something so easily disproved with a single Google search."

Nell worried her bottom lip. She really, really didn't think it was a good idea to listen to Crowley. But if he was right… if he was telling the truth…

Nell's gaze wandered to her duffel bag that Sam had brought in, where her laptop was. Well, as Crowley had said… it would only take a quick search to find out the truth.


	5. Chapter 5

Birdsong echoed off the trees. Leaves rustled in the wind. The temperature was perfect, late summer teasing at early fall, not too hot or too cold. Bright golden sunlight shone unencumbered by clouds, then ended abruptly just before where Nell stood.

There was a straight line in the garage where sunlight turned to shade. Nell stood rigidly a few inches back from it, observing the sunlight but not daring to enter it.

"You haven't been outside yet, have you?"

Nell shook her head at Dean's question. Sam was still sleeping, but Dean had allowed her out of her room when he woke so long as she stayed where he could keep an eye on her. For now, that meant the garage.

"I know it's not going to kill me," Nell said, hesitantly, "but I still can't help envisioning myself exploding... like something out of a campy horror movie."

"I  _wish_  it were that easy." Nell turned, eyes wide in disbelief, and Dean coughed. "I mean.  _Y'know_. For the  _bad_  vampires. Look, I promise you're not gonna explode." He paused, eyes rolling upwards as he seemed to think back to all the inaccurate vampire deaths he'd ever seen on screen. "Or melt, or turn to ash."

He was the expert, Nell supposed. But then, he'd also promised that this whole vampire thing would be nothing but a bad dream. So his record on promises was currently… less than stellar.

Still, Nell raised her hand. Slowly, tentatively, she inched it into the sunlight.

Pleasant warmth edged into heat, and heat edged into discomfort. It was not unlike washing her hands in too-hot water—bearable for a short time, but more and more uncomfortable with every passing second. After maybe twenty seconds Nell withdrew her hand, staring at the skin. Her hand was warm, incredibly so, and the skin was flushed pink, like the beginnings of a sunburn.

But it hadn't exploded, or melted, or turned to ash. "Huh."

"Told you." Dean opened the hood of his car and began to do… something. Nell knew essentially nothing about car maintenance. Dean might as well have been performing open heart surgery for all that Nell would have been able to understand the process. What she could tell, though, was that he seemed very confident and experienced with whatever it was.

"What's the story with this car, anyway?" Nell managed to find a minimally-dusty area of a nearby work table and took a seat. "It's pretty conspicuous for two guys who regularly impersonate government officials."

"Baby is not just any car," Dean corrected, apparently choosing to ignore Nell's jibe about the suitability of the car for his lawless lifestyle. "She's a 1967 Chevy Impala. Best car in the whole damn world."

"I wouldn't know, considering I only ever rode in the trunk," Nell remarked dryly.

It had been a joke, mostly. It was what Nell did, sometimes, making jokes when she couldn't handle the tension or absurdity of a situation. Dean could have let it pass, or joked back, but instead he shot her a challenging, entirely unapologetic look. "You were a baby vampire. Where else were we supposed to put you? The backseat, just waiting to tear me and Sam's throats out?"

"I  _was_  tied up at the time." A second failed attempt at levity.

"Yeah, and you snapped those ropes easier than a Chinese finger trap when your heart stopped beating, remember?"

Nell shut her mouth. She did remember. In fact, if the alternative to the trunk was riding in the backseat… maybe she'd have bitten one of them. If she even survived to escape that situation—highly unlikely, considering the Winchesters' apparent speed and skill at killing monsters—she would surely have been cursed. Doomed to become the sort of mindless, bloodthirsty monster that had haunted the back of her mind ever since she'd cracked open those books from the library.

Dean carried on with his work, apparently not noticing Nell's brooding silence. He switched on a battered-looking radio, fiddled with it until it filled the garage with shrieking guitar from a classic rock station, and then began peering into the car's engine. He seemed to know very well what he was doing, from the assured look on his face and the confidence in his hands as he reached in to poke and prod at it.

After a few minutes of watching him work, the room silent but for the AC/DC in the background, Nell started to grow bored. "What are you doing, anyway?"

Dean raised his head from the engine and eyed her skeptically. With amusement, Nell noted that he'd already managed to get a smudge of grease on his face.

"You know anything about cars?" From his tone, she could tell he doubted it. Nell wanted to be offended at the casual sexism of such an assumption, but couldn't protest it since, in this case, it was true. She knew to put gas in when it got low and to get an oil change once a year, but she didn't even know how to replace a tire, let alone anything about engine maintenance.

"I mean, I can  _drive_  one…"

Dean rolled his eyes. Nell had thought that would be the end of the conversation and Dean would go back to working in silence, but he beckoned her over. At Nell's hesitant look, he explained, exasperated, "You should at least know the basics."

What followed was an hour-long tutorial on the inner workings of a 1967 Chevy Impala. Nell wasn't permitted to touch anything, of course, but Dean did make a point to explain the various parts of the car and their function, and had her repeat them back at times to check if she was paying attention. From there he got to work, and all that was required of Nell from then on was to occasionally pass him requested tools.

It was oddly… normal.

Sure, she was a vampire and she was handing tools to a guy who hunted supernatural creatures in the garage of a hidden bunker built by a secret society. But if she ignored those details… she was just a woman sitting in a garage, spending time with another person, listening to music while he worked on his car and Nell watched the shadows shift beneath the trees outside as time passed.

When the shadows had all but disappeared and the garage had become muggy and hot with the late-summer Kansas noon, though, Nell stood and stretched.

"I think Sam should be up by now, and I don't think I can take much more mullet rock, so I'm gonna go… read, or something." Despite the declaration, Nell hesitated by the door to the garage, waiting for Dean to give some signal that he was okay with her leaving his sight.

"Hey." Dean pointed a wrench in her direction, mock-threatening. "Don't knock the music." His eyes narrowed a bit then. With a teasing, low voice, he continued, "I saw that guitar case in your trailer. You think you can do better?"

"Well, I can produce actual music, instead of wailing, screeching sounds," Nell said, glancing derisively at the still-shrieking radio. "So, yes."

"Oh yeah?" Dean switched the radio off, crossing his arms and leaning smugly against a workbench. "Let's hear it, then."

"I'm not going to serenade you in your garage." It was one thing to play in front of a group of people, or with a group of people—Nell had done that plenty of times for church groups or on camping trips. But playing to just one person was just… weird.

Dean was undeterred, though. "Uh-uh. You can't just run around talking a big game and then not back it up. Either you play a song, or you apologize to AC/DC." He pointed at the radio, apparently the area she was meant to direct her apology.

"You really are five, aren't you?" Nell could sense he wasn't going to drop it, though, so with a roll of her eyes and an exasperated sigh, she fetched her guitar from her trailer and began tuning it. The heat fluctuations and travel in the trailer had got the strings all out of tune, and it took her a few minutes. As she twisted the pegs and thumbed the strings, working the instrument back into tune, she tried to remember if she had any suitably passive-aggressive songs memorized for a situation like this.

"You gonna keep stalling all day, or what?" Dean teased as she tested the tuning, arms still crossed, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

Deciding on a song at last, Nell nodded and began to strum the opening chords.

" _Baby_ , ooh, baby…" Nell made an exaggerated face at Dean and his car. "I  _love_  to call you baby…"

"You're hilarious." Dean said it flatly, but Nell nodded in agreement, continuing the song and clumsily replacing some of the lyrics with references to cars. When she got midway through and got to the part about 'sweet kisses', looking suggestively between Dean and the car, he lobbed an oily rag at her and she stopped, laughing as she dodged.

"You're not bad," Dean admitted, seemingly grudgingly, as he pushed off the workbench and returned to whatever he was doing with the car. "How long have you been playing?"

Nell thought about it. She'd picked it up around age fourteen, so… "Around fifteen years? Just casually, though, and I can't really read music."

Dean hummed. "You know any Beatles songs?"

A request. Nell had done her bit, but now that she had the guitar out and in her hands, she found she didn't mind keeping going. While playing to one person was still a little odd, it felt much less like a serenade while Dean shuffled about working on the car. "You're in luck, Mr. Winchester. I know  _mostly_  Beatles songs."

They were some of the first songs she'd learned. Fairly easy to play, popular across many generations, most people knew the words—all the classic ingredients of a good campfire tune. So Nell played a Beatles song, and another, and another.

Usually after more than half an hour of playing, Nell's hands would cramp and her fingers would ache with pain from pressing on the strings, and she would stop. But not anymore. Now, her hands didn't tire, and her fingers didn't ache, and before she knew it she'd exhausted her repertoire of Beatles songs. To fill the silence, she moved on to a song she's learned back when her mother still forced her to go to youth group, and that she'd played more and more often over the last few months, finding an odd sort of comfort to it.

" _One bright morning, when this life is over, I'll fly away; to that home on God's celestial shore, I'll fly away. I'll fly away, oh Glory, I'll fly away. When I die, Hallelujah, by and by, I'll fly away—_ "

A clattering metallic sound echoed in the garage, high and piercing as a fire alarm to Nell's sensitive ears. She stopped playing immediately, hissing in pain. When she recovered enough to open her eyes and actually look for the source of the noise, she found Dean, staring accusingly at her with a wrench on the ground by his feet.

"What?" Nell asked, unsure what she could have done to deserve the dirty look.

Dean's jaw tensed for a moment, like he was considering swallowing back the words just dying to get out. But at Nell's continued wide-eyed, puzzled expression, he demanded, "What the hell were you doing out there, anyway?"

So that was it. Dean must have been holding that thought in for a while, Nell thought, from the way his eyes glinted and his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Nell set her guitar back in its case, debating how to approach this conversation and the rather surprising amount of anger rolling off the man.

"You didn't even wanna fight?" Dean asked harshly when a long moment had passed in silence.

"Against what?" Nell asked, calm and cool. She met Dean's fevered eyes without fear, or guilt. "Nature? Statistics?"

"You had a life, didn't you?" Dean demanded. "A family? How could you just leave them like that?"

"My family understood."  _Mostly,_  Nell amended, wordlessly, because her father and brother had given their blessing for her ill-fated farewell tour, but her mother most certainly had not. Still, even if she disapproved, her mother understood her reasons. "They knew I didn't want to waste away in a hospital. I wanted to die on my own terms. They understood."

"Maybe you wouldn't have died at all, if you'd bothered to try to fight!"

Nell didn't respond to that right away, letting the venomous words he'd just spat at her hang in the air unchallenged while she decided how to respond. Dean seemed to know immediately that he'd crossed a line, judging by the look on his face, but he didn't apologize or back down.

"This isn't a test, or a marathon," Nell said, quietly. Calmly. "It's  _cancer_. Sometimes it doesn't matter how hard you try. There are some fights you just can't win."

Dean shook his head fiercely. When the motion stopped he refused to look her in the eye, gaze instead somewhere over her shoulder. "There's always a way to win." And then, his voice low and strained, added, "There's gotta be."

Nell had the distinct feeling, suddenly, that this conversation was no longer about her. She wasn't sure if it ever really had been. Gently, because Dean was beginning to look downright haunted, Nell said, "That's not what I believe. And deep down, I suspect it's not what you believe, either."

Dean said nothing. He glared out the open garage door, sunlight illuminating his eyes like chipped glass, pale and sharp. Nell slipped out of the garage, and Dean did not stop her.

Nell found Sam nursing a cup of coffee and flipping through a tome thicker than most dictionaries Nell had seen. As Nell reached to bottom of the stairs, he leaned back in his chair with a sigh, running one hand through his hair and scowling at the book like it had insulted him somehow.

"A little light reading?"

Sam jolted at the question, head snapping up. One of his too-long legs must have jostled the table, too, because the coffee in his mug sloshed dangerously, and he quickly lifted it away from the delicate old books on the table.

"Sorry," Nell said, sincerely. "I didn't mean to startle you."

Sam shook his head, sighing and taking a long sip of the coffee. He grimaced a little, afterwards, so Nell guessed it'd probably gone cold. "It's angel research."

Nell shifted, still uncomfortable with the idea that God and angels actually existed. "That's what Kevin's working on, too, right?"

Sam's eyebrows shot up. "He told you about that?"

"More like ranted," Nell corrected. "Although there wasn't a lot of room to ask questions, so I didn't understand a lot of what he was saying—but I remember it involved angels."

Sam dragged a hand across his face, sighing. Only then did Nell notice how pale he was. There were dark circles under Sam's eyes, and it looked like he hasn't shaved in a few days.

"The angels fell from heaven, a while back. And ever since, they've been causing chaos on earth."

Nell blinked, taking that in. Frowned. "What, like the Devil?" It was the first thing that came to mind when Nell thought of fallen angels. That was the story, wasn't it? Lucifer and some other angels had rebelled against God, and so they'd fallen, becoming the Devil and the first demons.

Sam flinched minutely at the words. It was a tiny, unconscious movement, smothered almost as soon as it began, but Nell saw it nonetheless, along with the wild alarm that had lit in Sam's eyes for half a second before he recovered himself and cleared his throat.

"Uh, no. Not…" Sam shook his head. "Not him. Regular angels. And by a while back, I mean a few months."

Nell decided not to mention Sam's odd reaction to the mention of the Devil. "What kind of chaos?"

Nell's only perception of angels was from her mother. Any time it rained or snowed and Nell or her brother or father drove somewhere in the weather, her mother had hugged them tight and whispered the same prayer into their ears: "Angels guide you and keep you safe."

Sam sighed heavily again. "For right now, it's limited. The fall has them scattered into different factions, all at war with each other. They're possessing people and fighting, killing each other. But once all the fighting's done? Once one group of angels comes out on top, or they all unite?" Sam shook his head again. "The last time that happened, it kickstarted the Apocalypse."

Nell stared, waiting for Sam to explain that last bit. He didn't, staring back at her with eyes rimmed in dark circles.

"So what do you hope to get out of the books?"

Sam glanced down at the books scattered on the table, looking a little lost, like he'd forgotten the answer himself. He blinked at the books for a moment before clearing his throat. "We're hoping we can find some way to get them back to Heaven."

Nell felt frustratingly like she was staring at a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing, and Sam was not much helping. She wished he'd just explain everything he knew, so she at least knew whether she could help, or if she should just leave him to it.

"Well, how'd they get kicked out in the first place? And what's keeping them from going back now?"

"A spell." Sam leaned back in his chair, eyeing the book he'd been reading distastefully. "From the angel tablet. Bow of a cupid, heart of a nephilim, and grace of an angel—put them together, and it casts all the angels down from heaven. None of them have been able to find a way back since."

Nell nodded slowly. There was something there, in the line of Sam's shoulders, in the tightness of his fists. "Who cast it?" Because if there was a spell, surely there was a spell caster, or casters. Sam hadn't mentioned the culprit behind this calamity at all.

And by design, it seemed. Sam straightened a bit, eyes growing a bit wider, more alert. His lips parted. He drew in a breath. Hesitated. Finally, "Metatron. The scribe of God."

Nell wrinkled her nose a little, thinking. The name rang a bell, so she was certain Kevin had mentioned it—but everything Kevin said was a bit of a blur, so she couldn't place the context. "I take it you can't just ask him how to fix it?"

Sam shook his head. "Even if we knew how to find him, he wouldn't tell us. This was his plan. He  _wanted_  this to happen."

"So you're just reading everything you can find about angels?" Nell guessed, eyeing the titles of the books on the table. There were a lot of mentions of 'angels' and 'heaven' and 'the heavenly host'.

"And heaven," Sam agreed, sighing heavily again. "There's not much on it, or on angels, really. Not anything reliable, at least. These are nearly all the books we have, and a lot of it is hearsay about the times angels have come to Earth in the past. But then, it was always on purpose. This… this is unprecedented."

Sam's shoulders slumped. Staring at the books once more, his fingers crept unconsciously towards his abandoned coffee, his hand halting once it touched the still-cold mug. Nell took it, gently, from his fingers, and Sam looked up at her, a little confused, a little lost.

"How about a fresh pot?"

Nell made a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen and pondered while the machine sputtered and brewed. Sam was exhausted, clearly. He was working himself hard. Too hard, probably. Kevin was, too, but something about Sam was just different. Kevin looked tired, yes, and he hardly slept, but underneath he was still fine. Put some food in him, let him sleep for a solid twelve hours, and he bounced back. But there was something about the pallor of Sam's skin, the dullness in his hair and nails, that spoke of something more serious. Serious, like the smell.

It wasn't just that Sam was unappetizing. Nell would not complain about  _not_  wanting to eat her roommates. But it would almost be better, more reassuring, if he  _was_  appetizing, because as it was he smelled wrong. Sour. Sick, even.

When Nell emerged from the kitchen ten minutes later with a mug of hot coffee in her hand, Sam had fallen asleep with his face pillowed on a book. She debated for a minute, then returned the coffee to the kitchen, just in case the smell alone would wake him, and retreated to her room.

Alone again, with Sam asleep and Kevin working and Dean presumably still brooding in the garage, Nell could no longer distract herself from the thought, the temptation, that had been hovering at the back of her mind all day. Since last night.

Since she'd downloaded the Supernatural books.

She hadn't read them yet. Merely looked, just to check—and it turned out that Crowley was right. There was a book series, starring Sam and Dean, brothers who saved people and hunted things. The over-muscled hunks on the book covers were a little laughable, but the details were all there. And so Nell had downloaded all the copies she could find straight to her Kindle, and it lay on the bed, calling her.

Wasn't she just thinking how frustrating it was to live in the midst of all of this madness and not know what was going on? Wasn't all of this stuff common knowledge, anyway, if she could buy it in any bookstore in America? It was hardly a secret if hundreds or thousands had already read the information.

Still, though. Those hundreds or thousands of people didn't know that Sam and Dean were real people, didn't  _know_  them personally. Nell just knew that Sam and Dean wouldn't want her to read them, that they would consider it an invasion of privacy.

But then, Sam and Dean had got her mauled by a vampire and locked her in a trunk and left her with a demon and accidentally turned her into an immortal bloodsucking monster. And Dean, at least, had even rummaged through her things while bringing them back to the bunker from the Grand Canyon, since he'd clearly known about her guitar.

Most of all, though, it was practicality that drove Nell's final decision. Knowledge was power. This world of monsters and angels and demons was clearly dangerous, and she needed to know as much as possible about it all if she wanted to survive it. Who knew? Maybe it would even have some dirt about Crowley.

And so, Nell read.

It took her only two days to devour the entirety of the Supernatural book collection. Reading went much quicker now that she had no need to sleep, and Nell might have finished even sooner had she not made an effort to leave her room at regular intervals to make sure that the human inhabitants of the bunker actually ate. Nell didn't worry so much for Dean, but Sam and Kevin seemed liable to forget or even deliberately forgo food when they were absorbed in their work.

Finishing the series was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, she was now thoroughly educated about the precise company she was keeping. On the other hand, a lot of that education was knowledge Nell would sooner forget. The books weren't just the descriptions of the events in the brothers' lives, but also detailed accounts of their inner thoughts and feelings. It was more than Nell wanted to know, more than she felt  _comfortable_ knowing. It felt as if she'd snooped in their diaries, and now knew and understood Sam and Dean on a level that was utterly unfair.

They knew little about her, after all, and unless they developed the power to read minds anytime soon, they'd never know the things she thought and felt as intimately as she knew  _their_ thoughts and feelings.

Nell drummed her fingers on her Kindle thoughtfully, re-reading the last sentence of  _Swan Song_. It was the last book published, but it wasn't the end of the story—she knew this, because it ended what must have been several years ago, with Sam jumping into the cage to trap Lucifer and stop the Apocalypse. Obviously he had gotten out somehow, but in the absence of more books she had no idea how it had happened, or what had happened since. It wasn't like she could ask the Winchesters, after all—not if she didn't want to give away that she'd read the books.

For their sake, and for hers, she vowed to not reveal her knowledge of the book series unless the situation were dire. Which meant this was one cliffhanger she might just have to live with. Nell sighed, closing the cover on her Kindle and falling back onto the mattress to stare blankly at the ceiling.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Nell jolted a little. Crowley had been mostly quiet for the last few days. Nell had hardly noticed his silence, so absorbed in reading the books, but now she questioned it. Had he known that she was reading the books he'd told her about? Had he been waiting for her to initiate a conversation, to confront him about the knowledge in the books?

Because it wasn't just Sam and Dean she knew much more about, now. Crowley, too, had played a role in the events of the books, though with the series focusing on the Winchesters his time on page had naturally been much shorter. He'd been an ally of the Winchesters then—of sorts, anyway. It couldn't be denied that he'd helped stop the apocalypse.

But clearly things had changed since then which put him and the Winchesters in opposition, because he was here, locked securely in a dungeon. At the very least he had done awful things to Kevin, and Nell was sure that was only a drop in the bucket, considering the Winchesters' sheer level of antagonism towards him.

He might yet be a solution for Nell's little cliffhanger problem, though. Crowley had already shown himself to be talkative, and while Nell would never fully believe anything he told her without supporting evidence, Crowley might be able to give her the general outline of events that had taken place between Sam's leap into the pit and Nell meeting them at the Grand Canyon.

"I just finished  _Swan Song_ ," Nell said at last, having made her decision.

Crowley rattled out a funny little breath Nell couldn't interpret. "Did you." It wasn't a question really, and so Crowley didn't wait for an answer. "Now do you understand the kind of walking disasters you've got yourself tied up with?"

Nell let the insult pass without comment, partly because she wanted Crowley to answer her next question and partly because he wasn't wrong. "How did Sam get out of Hell?"

"Long story." Crowley paused, then continued brightly, "I could tell it to you, if you like. Why not you and I take a little moonlight stroll and I'll tell you all about it."

Nell didn't bother to stop her eyes from rolling. "I'm not letting you out."

"And why not?" Crowley protested. "You read the books—I helped stop the bloody apocalypse! I dare say you  _owe_  me."

"Sam and Dean stopped the apocalypse," Nell corrected. "And they've decided that whatever you've done since then is worth locking you in a dungeon for."

"Yes, and they have such a stellar history of good decision-making," Crowley said dryly.

Once again he wasn't wrong. Nell wondered then, despite Sam and Dean's prior warnings, how often Crowley actually bothered to lie. He seemed much more inclined, at least in Nell's experience so far, to use selective but highly targeted bits of truth.

"I wouldn't help you for what you did to Kevin alone," Nell said flatly, hoping to convey that she wouldn't ever be persuaded to let him out. If he thought there was a chance, his pestering would never cease, she was sure.

"He was being  _disobedient_ ," Crowley said, not unlike a child protesting that his sibling had hit him first, and he was just retaliating. "I couldn't very well let him get away with that, could I? He should be thankful I didn't kill him. I could have, you know, and I'm sure whoever got stuck with the gift of prophecy when he croaked would have been  _much_ more cooperative."

"You cut off his  _finger_ ," Nell reminded him, grimacing a little at just the mental image of it. "I'm not helping you escape."

Crowley sighed in dramatic disappointment. Nell wondered if it was natural, or if he was playing up his performance to make up for the fact that Nell couldn't see him.

"You're not going to get anything more out of me, then, love," Crowley said, not-quite-apologetically. "Since you've got nothing to offer."

Now  _that_  was a lie.

"Really?" Nell asked, faux innocent. "I was under the impression that I was your sole form of entertainment. I could just… not talk to you. I've ignored you for the last few nights without even meaning to. It'd be no trouble to do it again."

Crowley paused for a long moment. "You wouldn't." It sounded like he'd meant it as a dismissal, calling her bluff, but there was a wavering uncertainty there.

And it was warranted, because Nell was not bluffing. "Better yet, this bunker's just full of empty rooms. I bet I could move to one—"

"Alright, alright!" Crowley said quickly, cutting her off. "You've made your point. But I still want something in return."

"Like what?"

"A book."

"No." Crowley drew breath to complain, but Nell didn't give him the time. "I'm not giving you anything physical to keep with you. I don't know what you'd do with it, for one, and I don't want to explain to Sam and Dean how you got it."

"Such confidence," said Crowley, playing at being wounded.

"You're a demon," Nell reminded him, unaffected.

Crowley was quiet for a moment, perhaps thinking. "Music, then." He said at last. "Put some music on for me. Nothing suspicious about music, is there? An album for an answer."

Nell thought about it. It was about as harmless a thing as he could ask for, and she highly doubted he could weaponize it in any way. The only drawback was the sheer amount of time it would take to get answers if he only answered one question per album.

"You have to answer each completely, and any follow-up questions I have," Nell bargained. "I'm not going to play an album for every yes or no question."

"Of course," Crowley said generously, as if being stingy with answers had never occurred to him—which just confirmed, to Nell, that that had definitely been his plan. But Nell had all the power in the arrangement, and if Crowley stopped telling her useful things or tried too hard to tell her  _un_ -useful things, she could simply stop responding to him.

"It's a deal, then." If there was anything about Crowley she would dare to trust, it was that he'd keep his deals.

"Is it?" Crowley's voice dropped to a low rumble. "You'll have to pop down the hall if you want to seal it properly."

Nell had to squeeze her eyes shut and clench her jaw tight. It was a tease, of course—because she'd read the books, and now knew that demon deals were sealed with a kiss. The flirtatious challenge wouldn't have bothered her at all if it weren't so  _tempting._

Not to kiss Crowley, of course. He did hold a sort of dark appeal, Nell granted, with his dark hair and rugged scruff and low, seductive voice. He was admittedly attractive, but the idea of  _kissing_  him wasn't what made Nell's undead blood race.

No, what made the suggestion so tempting was the thought of  _drinking_ Crowley. His blood was the best thing she'd ever tasted. When her thoughts drifted, when she couldn't distract herself from the nagging hunger that lingered always at the back of her mind, she remembered what it was like to taste him, however briefly. Warm and sweet and smokey and so, so  _satisfying_  in a way that pig's blood never was, never could be. More satisfying even than Dean's blood, fresh from the vein and offered freely. Nell didn't thirst for human blood, she thirsted for  _Crowley's_ , and the knowledge that he was not so far away, behind doors that Nell could easily break through were she determined enough...

She didn't trust herself. She couldn't didn't want to get close to Crowley, didn't want to be in the same room with him ever again, because she was sure that if she had the opportunity in front of her like that, she would take it. She would use her abominable teeth and tear into his throat and drink his blood—

Nell clenched her jaw harder and forced the thought out of her mind. She decided the best thing to do was to simply pretend she hadn't heard his proposition, and began to pull out her laptop and a portable speaker from her duffel bag.

"Got any requests?"

Crowley apparently decided not to push his luck. "Handel's Water Music, if you please."

Nell hadn't been sure what to expect from a demon's taste in music, so she wasn't particularly surprised by the selection. She did a bit of Googling and found a recording by the New York Philharmonic, and set it to play.

It was rather nice, Nell thought, reclining on her bed once more as the music began. She'd never really been one for classical music. In the past she might have settled on a classical station in the car sometimes when there wasn't anything good on any other stations, but she'd never deliberately sought it out, and she'd be hard-pressed to tell the difference between Bach or Mozart or Pachelbel.

This, though… this was nice. If Nell closed her eyes, sank into the sheets, and let her mind drift while the music engulfed her, it was almost,  _almost_ , like dreaming.

"Castiel yanked Sam out of the cage," Crowley said when the last strains of music finished. "Well, I say  _Sam_ … the angel botched it. Got the body and the mind, left behind the soul to be Satan's chew toy."

The first thing that came to Nell's mind was the description from the Harry Potter books of people who had their souls sucked out by dementors: alive, but in name only. Just blank, empty eyes, with nothing left of the person they used to be.

"How does that even work?" Nell asked. "Was he in a coma, or something?"

"Oh, no. He was quite active." There was a dark sort of satisfaction in Crowley's voice, but Nell hardly paid it any attention.

"How is that even possible? How can you walk around and be a person without a soul?"

" _Person_  is debatable," said Crowley. " _Dangerous sociopath_  would be more accurate."

Nell tried to picture Sam, with his expressive face and big, regretful eyes, as a sociopath, and failed miserably. Even when he had thought she might have hurt Kevin and he had clearly been considering chopping her head off, he was far from sociopathic.

"Since he's not a dangerous sociopath now, I can only assume he got it back."

"Clearly." Nell waited for Crowley to elaborate, but he didn't.

"How?" Crowley gave a small, quiet sigh. Nell wondered if he would demand another album before he answered. To her relief, he didn't.

"Word on the street is Death himself did the deed," Crowley said finally. Then, sounding vaguely annoyed, "I never did find out how they convinced him to do it."

Death himself. Nell was never going to get used to this. "What happened after that?"

"Vivaldi."

At least he hadn't left her on a cliffhanger. Nell found a collection of Vivaldi concertos and played it.

When the music ended Crowley said, "Sam spent a year without a soul. Dean spent that time playing house with some woman and her son. Sam spent it hunting with his maternal grandfather."

Nell furrowed her brow. "I thought he was dead?"

"Oh, he was," Crowley agreed. "I fixed that."

"Why?" Given the history and tension between Crowley and the Winchesters, Nell couldn't imagine why Crowley would want more of them around.

"I had… expansion plans," Crowley said carefully. "With Lucifer back in his cage, I was able to seize control of Hell. But the angels were still restless, and more than a few wanted to restart the apocalypse. I wasn't about to let that happen, so I wanted… insurance."

"You resurrected Sam and Dean's grandfather for  _insurance_?"

"Means to an end," Crowley said easily, unaffected by Nell's disbelief. "Sam and Samuel brought me Alphas—the first monsters. Vampire, werewolf, shapeshifter… I was looking for Purgatory."

"I take it that's not the same one I heard about in Sunday school." Nell had never quite understood the concept of purgatory even then, and still wasn't sure if it was reserved for people who needed to repent in order to enter heaven, or for unbaptized children and heathens. She'd never much cared about the distinction before—she'd thought it wasn't real.

"It's where monsters go when they die," Crowley informed her. Nell jolted.

"Monsters," she repeated weakly. "Like—" She couldn't say it.

"Vampires, yes," Crowley finished, having no such trouble. His voice lowered, and Nell couldn't decide whether his tone was meant to be threatening or seductive when he said, "There'll be no heaven or hell for you, darling. Not anymore."

Nell swallowed heavily.

"Wow, look at the time," she said, not bothering to glance at her watch. It wasn't like Crowley could see her. "I should go… see about breakfast, or something."

"It's four in the morning."

Apparently Crowley had his own watch. Nell ignored him, hit play on a random playlist, and fled.

* * *

"So, you were trying to get to purgatory," Nell said, forcing herself to sound casual. She hadn't returned to her bedroom until after 10pm that night, too flustered by Crowley's tone and the reminder of what she was.

A vampire. A monster. So far from human that she couldn't go to heaven, or to hell.

It was a lot to deal with. Nell had decided that the best possible coping mechanism for the moment was stubborn denial. Luckily, Crowley was smart enough not to bring up the subject again.

"Not get to, so much as… tap into," Crowley corrected. Then, in an almost lecturing tone, "Souls are a power source. Heaven and Hell are evenly matched, or close enough that the difference hardly matters. But purgatory has millions of souls—a massive amount of energy, utterly untapped. If I could have harnessed it—" Crowley cut himself off with a frustrated sigh.

"I take it you couldn't."

"Castiel betrayed me," Crowley spat bitterly. Then, voice rising, he said, " _I'm_  the demon; if there's going to be betrayal, it should be by me!"

"Castiel, the angel?" Nell asked, confused.

"We were working together," Crowley confirmed. "We had an agreement: split the souls in purgatory, half and half. But the angel got greedy. Took all the souls, tried to play God. He killed Raphael,  _almost_  killed me—and then just about killed himself, setting the Leviathans loose in the process."

Nell guessed he was not talking about the book on political theory by Thomas Hobbes. She was less sure that he wasn't referring to the biblical Leviathan, but his use of the plural threw her off. So she asked, "What's a Leviathan?"

"The Main Ingredient." It took Nell a puzzled moment to realize that Crowley was not answering her question, but requesting more music. Then he added, "Bitter Sweet. 1972."

Nell raised her eyebrows at the dramatic change from the classical music of the night prior, but said nothing, lest Crowley interpret her interest in his musical choices as her next question. She found the album and played it. She had never heard of the artist, but quickly found herself herself nodding along to the beat. It wasn't the sort of music she could imagine demons listening to.

"Leviathans were God's failed first project," Crowley explained when the album finished. "Nasty, ancient creatures, and always hungry. Legend says the kids got a little too violent and destructive, so the big man locked them away in purgatory to protect the rest of creation."

"And they got loose on earth?" Nell tried to think back on the last few years. She felt like hungry, destructive monsters from the dawn of creation running amok on earth would have made the news. Clearly, it hadn't—but then, neither had the apocalypse.

Crowley hummed an affirmative. "Tried to conquer the world, and nearly managed it, too. Winchesters put a stop to it—not that they could have done it without my help."

Something about this was ringing a bell in Nell's memory. "Is that when you kidnapped Kevin?"

"Adopted, really," said Crowley, cajoling. "The Leviathans kidnapped him first. When Dean and Castiel vanished and Sam dropped off the map, I generously took him in."

"You forced him to translate the demon tablet," Nell corrected flatly, but without true ire.

" _Persuaded_ ," Crowley corrected. Nell could practically see his scowl from the tone in his next words. "The damn boy's too clever for his own good. Gave me the run-around, killed my demons and escaped with the tablet. I might not have found him for years, if the Winchesters hadn't tracked him down first."

"And then you killed his girlfriend," Nell remembered.

"He had a fair chance," Crowley defended, in the sort of playfully justifying tone of someone defending himself from an accusation of cheating at Monopoly, rather than killing a person. "If he'd just translated it all like he was supposed to, I wouldn't have had to kill her."

Nell shook her head and decided she had neither the energy nor the will to address the many, many things wrong with what the demon had just said. "So Kevin escaped again."

"Yes," Crowley said sourly. "But he let the tablet get stolen, and I stole it back. A little birdy told me all the names of the prophets on Earth, so I tried to get one of them to read it, but it was a bust—only one prophet can live at a time, so as long as Kevin was alive, the others were useless."

Nell blinked. "Does that mean Carver Edlund is dead?"

There was a small rattle of chains that Nell interpreted as a careless shrug. "Must be." Crowley sounded utterly disinterested in what might have happened to the author of the books he'd recommended.

"At any rate. Kevin went on the run with his mother, but eventually she got sloppy, and I found them." Half warning, half darkly satisfied, Crowley told her, "You shouldn't trust witches—especially ones you meet over the internet."

"Noted," Nell said. Then, brow creasing, "I've lost track—is this the second or third time you kidnapped Kevin?"

Crowley sighed in such a way that Nell was sure he was rolling his eyes. "The second."

"Is that the time you cut off his finger?"

"I should have cut off his damn head, and let one of the other morons take over," Crowley muttered peevishly. "Then I might not have had Winchesters and angels busting down my door to rescue him and  _breaking_  the tablet. Kevin escaped with half, and of course, without him, the half I had was useless."

"Shame," Nell said, without sincerity. Crowley ignored her.

"I did, however, learn about another tablet: the angel tablet. Went through all the trouble of finding it, too, just to have Castiel steal it from under my nose… And then, to make things worse, Abaddon had to show up."

The sheer amount of venom in Crowley's voice had Nell's eyebrows raising. Even though she suspected Crowley would request another album for the answer to the question, she asked, "Who's Abaddon?"

"A Knight of Hell," Crowley answered immediately, to Nell's surprise. "She's the reason this damned place is so empty—she slaughtered the Men of Letters, 50 years ago. I had hoped that they'd managed to kill the bitch before they all died out, since no one downstairs had heard from her since. Turned out she was just time-travelling, and now she's back. Probably tearing my kingdom apart while I sit on my ass, chained up in a closet."

Nell took a moment to assimilate all of that information, then asked, "And how did that happen?"

Crowley hissed an annoyed breath. "Music first."

Nell turned to her computer. "Requests?"

"Surprise me."

Nell thought for a moment, then played Sam Cooke, Live at the Harlem Square Club. When the music began Crowley made a soft noise Nell thought might have been approval. When it ended, he spoke with poorly restrained irritation.

"First, the Winchesters killed a Hellhound. Then, they saved an 'innocent soul' from Hell—they were clearly up to something. I figured it had to be something to do with the demon tablet, and knowing the Winchesters, would be bad news for me. So, I encouraged them to stop what they were doing."

"Like you  _persuaded_  Kevin to translate the tablet?" Nell asked doubtfully.

"They tricked me," Crowley said, voice rising high in offense but, Nell noted, not denying what she'd implied. Then, in a self-admonishing mutter, "I don't know why I keep running off to meet with the Winchesters—it's always a trap, and it always bites me in the arse."

"This was when Sam tried to cure you?" Nell asked, recalling that detail from one of their previous conversations.

"Yes." Nell heard Crowley swallow, and when he continued his voice was rough. "Purified human blood. Every hour, on the hour, until I was teetering on the brink of humanity." Crowley released a shuddering breath, then cleared his throat. "But it would have killed Sam to finish it, so he stopped. And the angels fell, and I've been shut up in this damn dungeon ever since."

Nell didn't know what to say to that, so she opted to say nothing, and played another Sam Cooke album.


	6. Chapter 6

Nell was slowly becoming accustomed to un-life in the bunker. During the day, Nell kept busy. It was important for her to do so, because whenever her mind wasn't occupied by cooking or reading or doing yoga, it was occupied by  _the hunger_. It never fully went away, no matter how much pig's blood Nell drank. It was like a buzzing at the back of her skull, a constant annoyance always pushing at her mind. If she didn't force herself to pay attention to something else, her mind strayed back to it.

And so, she kept busy.

Nights were different. Some nights, she peppered Crowley with more questions about the supernatural events of the last several years, or about the supernatural in general. Other nights, she stayed far away from her room, haunting the library and wondering what was wrong with her for enjoying the company of a demon.

Because the thing was, she  _did_  enjoy it. Even when Crowley talked easily about murder and torture and possessing people, Nell could muster little more than vague disapproval. Even knowing everything he'd done, to the world in general and Kevin and Sam and Dean in particular, she couldn't convince herself to hate him the way the other inhabitants of the bunker did.

She tried not to beat herself up too much about it, though, because she heavily suspected that her inability to dislike the demon was a  _vampire thing_. For all Crowley's charm and manipulations, Nell was certain she would be able to ignore him much more easily if she didn't remember, vividly, what his blood tasted like.

It was a little bit like the taste of him had been muddled up with her views on him as a person—or demon, as it were. It wasn't just his blood that was as rich as wine and precious as gold, but Crowley  _himself_. Sometimes, when Crowley's voice deepened to a low rumble and he spoke in low tones, Nell shuddered alone in her room and could almost taste him.

It was that reaction which worried her most, and which drove her more and more to avoid her own bedroom in favor of the library. The call of Crowley's blood, when he spoke to her alone in the dark while everyone else slept, was too much some nights. If she wasn't careful, if she didn't keep her distance, Nell feared that one night Crowley would suggest again that she walk down the hallway and let him out of his chains, and Nell wouldn't be able to resist the temptation.

Her efforts were not helped by Dean's sudden case of clumsiness.

First, he'd cut himself shaving, walking into the kitchen where Nell was making breakfast to pour himself a cup of coffee with small welling droplets of blood all across his jaw. He'd seemed utterly unaware of it at the time, and Nell had dismissed it as unimportant, deciding that Dean was simply getting so used to her that he thought nothing of walking around his vampire housemate smelling like fresh blood.

She started to grow suspicious when, the same afternoon, Dean had somehow managed to give himself a nasty paper cut across the room from Nell in the library. And now, this.

Nell and Sam had brought in the plates from dinner while Dean began to wash up. Less than a minute after starting, he'd managed to cut himself on a knife. Dean hissed, stepping away from the sink and holding his palm up to the light. Blood welled in a thin line, scarlet and alive and tempting as a hot drink on a cold morning.

Nell pursed her lips, halting in the doorway with her hands full of soiled paper napkins. "I know what you're trying to do, Dean, but I'm just not that into you."

Sam jolted, dropping plates into the full sink a little harder than he should have and sending water sloshing along the counter and onto the floor. He turned wide eyes to Nell, cheeks flushing a little. "What?"

"I don't know what you're talkin' about," Dean said easily. Sam narrowed his eyes at his brother immediately, then turned to Nell for an explanation. Nell happily tattled.

"Dean keeps 'accidentally' cutting himself to see how I'll react."

"Dean!" Sam scolded immediately. Dean shrugged, entirely unrepentant, and began rummaging in a cabinet for a bandage.

"Well, what else am I supposed to do?" He pulled out a disinfecting wipe and a suitable bandage and began fumbling with the packaging. "We can't just babysit her in the bunker forever, but I'm not leaving her alone with Kevin if she's gonna snap when the kid gets a nosebleed."

Nell sighed heavily through her nose, throwing the napkins in the trash bin and quickly washing her hands before crossing to help Dean bandage his hand. Dean was surprised enough when she got close that he let her bat his hands away and open the disinfectant wipe, though he was clearly tense. Nell took in short breaths with her mouth, trying not to breathe too deeply.

At least it wasn't Crowley. That, Nell wouldn't have been able to handle. She decided not to tell the Winchesters this, though. So far, at least, it had not occurred to Crowley or the Winchesters that all the demon had to do to get Nell to knock down the door to the dungeon was tear open his wrist with his teeth again.

"I've already been alone with him, remember?" Nell wiped the cut clean with care, then quickly tossed the bloodied wipe away and covered the cut with the bandage. "If that doesn't make you trust me, I don't know what will."

Dean flexed his hand and fixed her with an almost-apologetic look. "It's not about trust, okay? You seem like a good person, Nell. I know you wouldn't hurt Kevin on purpose. But you're not  _human_ anymore. If something happened, and you couldn't control yourself…"

He trailed off. None of them needed to say aloud what would happen then. Shaking his head, Dean said quietly, "I couldn't forgive myself if something happened to Kevin. Not again."

Nell closed her eyes, and behind her eyelids the horrific illustrations from the bunker's vampire books came alive. Sharp teeth and death, bathing in blood and the still, mangled bodies of women and children. Henry's bloody, tortured eyes, full of hunger and malice as he buried his awful teeth into Nell's neck.

No. She didn't want to become that. She didn't want Kevin to become that, either. But Dean's little 'tests' weren't the way to prevent such tragedy, she was sure.

"And what if I couldn't handle it?" Nell scanned Dean up and down, trying to tell if he was carrying one of the long knives she'd seen the brothers use before. If he was, it was well-concealed. "Were you going to decapitate me in the middle of the kitchen?"

"It wouldn't have come to that," Dean said quickly.

"Dean." Sam's voice was serious and dark with repressed irritation. "Can I talk to you in private?"

Dean winced, but nodded, and followed his brother down the hall. A door opened and shut, and Sam had the presence of mind to put on some music so Nell wouldn't be able to hear them arguing. Nell appreciated the gesture, even if it was intended to keep her from eavesdropping—she didn't want to have to listen to them talk about her when she couldn't be a part of the conversation.

As she washed the dishes from the evening meal, her mind drifted once again to her future. Her long, unending,  _immortal_  future. She tried not to dwell on it too much, because the thought of living forever disturbed her deeply. Now, though, she was more concerned about her more immediate future.

How long would the Winchesters try to keep her here? Would they eventually let her go, or would she eventually have to escape without their permission? And—this question bothered her the most, because the answer should have been obvious, but wasn't—did she even want to leave?

There was little to do in the bunker. An immortal life was bad enough without having to spend the whole time in the same place, with nothing to do and hardly any company. Kevin was absorbed in his tablet, and Sam and Dean did their own research, whether about angels or hunting. Crowley was… well. Crowley was Crowley.

But for all that Nell did not like the bunker, with its lack of windows and its cement hallways and its endless library filled with information on how to kill things like her, the desire to leave was strangely absent. When Nell thought of getting in her car and driving away, continuing her road trip and trying to make something of her new, endless life on her own, she didn't feel hope or longing, but dread.

She didn't know if she could even do it. If Sam and Dean woke up tomorrow morning and decided that she was free to go—or worse, simply kicked her out on her own—Nell wasn't sure she could go. It would be like leaving a part of herself behind.

And that, too, was concerning, because Nell had never had a problem leaving things behind. She didn't get attached to people or places or things very easily. She'd never bothered keeping in touch with her high school friends. She'd never once missed a boyfriend or girlfriend when they went away. And when she'd been told her cancer was terminal and she had less than a year to live… instead of staying with her family, she had stuck out on her own, to cram as much living as she could into her final months.

So it was atypical, to say the least, that Nell didn't want to leave this place. It didn't fit her pattern, and Nell had no explanation for it. The best she could guess was that it was another  _vampire_ thing, because she wanted to stay in this place almost as strongly as she craved Crowley's blood.

* * *

"Put these on. We're going on a field trip."

Nell took the hat and gloves from Dean and examined them. The hat was black felt, a sort of updated western style with a braided leather band around the base. The brim was just short of comically wide, but Nell knew that this would be by design. It needed to block the sun, after all. The gloves were also black, and though the slim cut suggested they were made for a woman, the wear and fading in places told her that unlike the hat, they had once belonged to someone.

At some point last night, the music Sam had put on to keep Nell from overhearing their conversation had stopped, but neither Sam nor Dean had spoken afterwards, and so Nell had no idea what the conclusion of the prior night's argument had been. Apparently they had come to some agreement, though, because Sam had watched Dean foist the hat on her without any sign of surprise or protest.

"What kind of field trip?" Nell asked, even as she obligingly put on the hat. The fit was alright, and she thought it would serve its purpose well. She was already wearing a soft turtleneck sweater and jeans, so all she'd have to fetch if she wanted to go outside were a pair of gloves.

"The 'Let's find out if we can trust you' kind."

"You'll be fine," Sam assured her immediately. "You can handle it. And once you prove you can handle it, we won't worry about leaving you here alone."

He seemed to have the utmost confidence in her, which Nell found reassuring. She put on the gloves.

"Okay then. To the Magic Schoolbus."

Dean made a face at her calling his Baby the Magic Schoolbus, but still allowed Nell to ride in the Impala's passenger seat, rather than the trunk. And then they were out of the bunker and on the road.

It took a great deal of restraint to stop herself from rolling down the car's window and sticking her head out like an overexcited labrador retriever. The day was beautiful, the sun was shining, and Nell was seeing trees and blue sky and golden fields of corn as they wound their way towards the nearest city. Dean, thankfully, seemed content to let her stare silently and longingly out the window for the entire drive, contenting himself with the road and his music. Nell, in her gratitude, didn't make fun of it.

After fifteen minutes, corn fields and barns gave way to small housing developments and strip malls, and then finally something resembling a small city. Ten minutes after passing the first sign of true civilization (a Starbucks coffee shop), Dean pulled into a large parking lot and stopped the car at their destination.

A hospital. Nell stared at it with trepidation.

"I thought you were worried about me going crazy at the smell of blood." Nell was confident that she would never hurt Kevin, but she wasn't sure she could deal with a hospital. There would be people bleeding, people having blood drawn, even rooms full of nothing but human blood.

"The way I figure it, if you can handle it here, you can handle just about anything." Dean looked over at her seriously. "Can you handle it?"

She could say no. Dean would start the car back up and drive right back to the bunker if she did, she was sure. They would figure something else out, maybe. Some other way to be sure she was safe. Or, if they couldn't be sure, they might just lock her up again when they needed to leave. Not in her room, surely, since she'd gotten out so easily last time. The only place it would be safe to leave her would be the dungeon… with Crowley.

Nell decided on the lesser temptation.

"I can handle it."

"Good. Let's go."

It was easier than it should have been to sneak into and wander around the hospital. They're busy places, with patients and family members coming and going at all times. Dean walked with purpose, like he had every right to be wherever he was going, and Nell trailed after him, attempting to convey that same confidence as best she was able. No one stopped them.

"How are you holding up?" Dean asked, once they were past the check-in desk and walking down a quiet hallway.

"Better than I thought I would, actually," Nell admitted. It was not as bad as Nell had thought it would be. There was the smell of blood, true, but it wasn't too tempting. The sweet smell of it was mixed with the harsh smell of cleaning supplies and the rotting smell of sickness and death. "The smell of chemicals and the fact that most of these people are sick is a pretty big turn-off."

"You can smell that?" Dean shook his head as soon as the question was out of his mouth. "What am I saying, of course you can smell that."

"You think I could make a career out of it?" Nell asked lightly, keeping her joking voice down as a nurse wheeled an elderly woman down the hallway in a wheelchair. The woman smelled of urine, and the nurse of cigarettes. "I could be like one of those dogs that can smell cancer."

"But better, because you don't drool and shed all over the place," Dean said, also keeping his voice low. Nell smiled, relieved that they were at least at a place in their very-weird relationship—friendship?-that they could joke together.

"I mean, I feel like my primary advantage would be the fact that I can communicate—" Nell cut off as they rounded the corner.

They had reached the emergency room. The scent of blood was much stronger here, so much that Nell stopped in her tracks. Dean kept walking, taking a seat in an empty chair at the far side of the room. Breathing through her mouth as much as possible, Nell followed quickly, sinking into the chair next to Dean and clasping her hands tightly together.

Dean watched her carefully out of the corner of his eye. "How you feeling?"

Nell hummed distractedly and shut her eyes, trying to think of a way to explain it that would make sense. "Imagine… you skipped lunch. And someone sits in front of you and starts eating a big, juicy burger." This, she knew, Dean would understand. "And you can smell it, so well that you can almost taste it, and see the juices dripping off their hands. But you're not allowed to eat it, and you know soon you'll go home and choke down a wilted green salad."

Dean swallowed. "So, pissed."

"More annoyed." Nell hesitated, but withholding the truth on something like this didn't seem wise. "I'm not going to lie, it's kind of like that all the time."

"What, you're always angry? Like the Hulk?"

A smile flickered and died on Nell's lips in response to his attempt at levity. "I've never been quick to anger. I've always been pretty relaxed, calm. I handle stress well, and it takes a lot to make me crack. But ever since…" Nell waved a vague hand, and Dean nodded. "That calm is more elusive. I have to cultivate it, with yoga, or a hot shower, or ridiculous amounts of pig's blood, or I can feel it slipping."

Dean was quiet for a moment, then asked, "What happens when it slips?"

Nell swallowed this time. "I don't know." She glanced at Dean. He was watching her closely, but he didn't seem tense, the way he had only the night before when she'd helped to bandage his hand. "Before, I might cry, or run until I couldn't feel my legs, or eat an entire pizza and sleep for 12 hours. I'm not exactly keen to find out what the current version of that is."

"Well, I know destroying furniture's on the list."

Nell winced. She had largely forgotten that she'd destroyed a solid wooden desk as easily as if it had been made of toothpicks, despite looking at it every day. She'd gotten so used to the shattered pieces of it in the corner of the room that she had forgotten how it had got that way.

They fell silent for a while, watching the happenings of the emergency room. It was mid-day on a weekday, so thankfully there were fewer serious injuries. People tended not to get in bar fights or drunk driving accidents at 3pm on a Wednesday. There were only about a dozen people in the waiting room, and several of them had injuries which weren't bloody at all. There was a man with what looked to be a dislocated shoulder, a woman huddled over with abdominal pain, and a high school football player who might have been in for a concussion.

A few people were actively bleeding, though. One man was stemming the tide of a bloody, and likely broken, nose. A few patients, already treated, left on their own two feet with freshly-stitched wounds, smelling of blood and antiseptic. As Dean and Nell sat there, a man came in with a badly bleeding hand that was seen to fairly quickly, a more serious version of the small cut Dean had given himself the night before. One of the emergency room doctors was also menstruating, but the smell was different from blood from the vein, and significantly less tempting.

The most serious thing they witnessed was an older man, brought it by his frantic wife and what Nell guessed might have been his son. A heart attack, Nell knew, even before the wife began babbling an explanation at the nearest nurse. His heartbeat was weak, sluggish, and irregular, and the man's face was already a sickly gray color.

"He's going to die," Nell said, certainly but softly enough that only Dean would be able to hear. Then, because it was too odd a thought to keep inside, the continued, "All of them will. Not today, most of them, or even soon. But they will. You will, too. And I… won't."

Dean did not seem to share her amazement. "Most people seem a little more excited about the idea of immortality." Despite his words, Dean did not seem to be one of those people.

"I'm willing to bet those people tend not to think about watching all their friends and loved ones pass away," Nell said. "I always figured that part of what gives life meaning is the fact that it ends."

She was still talking quietly, but a nurse had been passing by, and was now stopping to give her a disturbed look. "Are you two on the list already?"

"No, we're fine," Dean said quickly, standing. "My brother broke his arm and we were supposed to meet him at the ER, but now I think he went to the other hospital across town. We'll get out of your hair."

Dean made for the door, and Nell followed him. Both of them ignored the nurse's stammered protest that they were the only hospital in town.

They settled back into the car, and Dean began the drive back in silence. No music played this time. Unable to muster any excitement for passing trees and fields this time, Nell stared straight ahead at the road, watching the paint lines on the road with fixed attention.

"You'll die one day, too, you know," Dean said after a few minutes of heavy silence. "Maybe not for a long time, but something gets us all eventually." He sounded resigned. Tired.

"...Is it odd that I find that comforting?"

"It shouldn't be." Dean spoke so quickly and so certainly that Nell jerked her head to look at him. Dean avoided her gaze, looking determinedly at the road. "Vampires… they don't go to heaven or hell when the die. They go to purgatory."

That was right. Crowley had told her that, hadn't he?  _There'll be no heaven or hell for you, darling. Not anymore._

Nell hadn't thought much at the time about what that meant, but now she wondered. There had been something tight and odd about the way Dean said the word.

"Is it bad?"

"Well, it's not Hell-bad, but it's…" Dean trailed off, his eyes distant. "Yeah. It's pretty bad."

"Oh."

Silence stretched on for a minute.

"If you ever end up there—" Dean paused, as if unsure whether to continue. Then he swallowed hard and plowed on, "If you ever end up there, you look for Benny, okay? Benny Lafitte. Tell him you know me, and he'll take care of you."

Nell stared at Dean's profile, his tense jaw, knuckles white on the wheel. "...Do I even want to know that story?"

"You might," Dean allowed. "But I ain't in the mood to tell it."

* * *

Sam and Dean left for what they called 'a simple salt-and-burn' later that same week. Before they drove off, Nell presented them with a bag of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and a box wrapped in brown paper and tied with blue ribbon. Dean took the cookies enthusiastically, and Sam accepted the box with a puzzled expression.

"They're gifts for my niece and nephew," Nell explained. "I'd mail them in town, but I don't want to send something postmarked 'Kansas' when I said I was heading west from Arizona. Would you mind dropping it off at a post office somewhere on the road?"

Nell had been keeping up that illusion, too. She had stolen some photos from websites and social media to fabricate a few short emails about her continued travels to her family. None of them were particularly tech savvy, but even if they were, she was sure it would never occur to them to suspect that instead of continuing her road trip, she was instead hiding out in a secret society's underground bunker somewhere in Kansas, and also a vampire.

"Yeah, sure."

And then Sam and Dean were gone, and it was just Nell and Kevin in the bunker.

(And Crowley, of course. Always, there was Crowley.)

It was quieter without Sam and Dean around, lonelier. Kevin, though he appreciated Nell's cooking, rarely left his room. He worked on the tablet at all hours, constantly scribbling and muttering and crumpling papers. Nell brought him breakfast, and lunch, and dinner, because getting him to leave for any extended length of time was almost certainly impossible. When she brought in lunch on the second day and noted that his breakfast was still utterly untouched, Nell put her foot down, and refused to leave until he'd consumed the entire sandwich.

Kevin had attempted to ignore her at first, but eventually her staring had got to him. He'd sighed irritably and taken a more ferocious bite of the sandwich than was frankly called for.

"You don't have to take care of me, you know," Kevin muttered irritably around a mouthful of sandwich. Nell suspected he was being rude on purpose in an attempt to irritate her. "I'm not a kid."

Nell tilted her head thoughtfully. "Did I ever tell you what I did for a living?"

Kevin shook his head, apparently perplexed by her apparent decision to ignore what he'd just said.

"I was an accountant," Nell informed him. "Which means that I am no stranger to studying for long hours and trying to make sense of other people's nonsensical scribbles."

Kevin glared, unamused. "It's not the same."

"I know it's not," Nell granted him. "But what  _is_  the same is that if you want to make any progress, and if you want to get through it without completely losing your mind, you've  _got_ to take breaks sometimes."

Kevin glared some more and ate the rest of the sandwich quickly. Defeated, Nell left with the empty plate.

She was then pleasantly surprised when, as she finished heating up a single heaping serving of curry and rice, Kevin joined her in the kitchen. Judging by the wary look on his face, Nell decided that the best way to encourage this behavior was to not acknowledge it directly. She put the food down on the table in the library which had become the impromptu dining table whenever all three human inhabitants of the bunker sat down for a meal at the same time.

They ate together in a slightly awkward silence, Kevin spooning up curry and rice while Nell slurped down lukewarm pig's blood and tried to hide her grimace. She didn't usually take her time like this, and now she remembered why: the taste lingered like a film on her tongue, and taking small sips only seemed to make it worse. Eventually she couldn't handle it anymore. She plugged her nose and knocked back the entire glass at once, trying to taste it as little as possible.

When Nell set the glass back down on the table, Kevin was watching her curiously. "That looks disgusting."

"You get used to it," Nell lied. She watched, a little enviously, as Kevin began eating again. He ate at a decent pace, but his gaze was distant, like his mind was still in his bedroom, occupied by the tablet. He had bags under his eyes again.

"Can I ask you a question?"

Kevin glanced up. "I guess."

Nell pushed onwards despite his lack of enthusiasm. "I know getting the angels back to heaven is important… but why are you pushing yourself so hard like this?"

Kevin sighed. Set his fork down. Scrubbed a hand over his weary face. "The sooner I finish this, the sooner I can put all of this angel and demon crap behind me."

Nell could tell that he didn't really believe that. Hoped it, maybe, but didn't  _believe_. And Nell couldn't blame him. Once you'd been exposed to this stuff… you might be able to escape it for a time, ignore it if you tried, but you could never unknow it. And since Kevin would be a prophet for long as he lived…

Nell cleared her throat. "What do want to do then?" At Kevin's slightly mystified look she clarified, "When you're done?"

Kevin's brow furrowed. Nell doubted he'd dared to think about this much. Finally he shrugged.

"I don't know." He smiled a bitter, self-deprecating smile which seemed out of place on such a young face. "When I was in high school, I wanted to be President."

"Really?" Nell blinked in genuine surprise. Kevin's shoulders hunched down a little.

"It sounds stupid now…"

"No, it doesn't," Nell said. "You just seem too smart for it, that's all."

Kevin blinked. "Thanks? I think."

Nell leaned back in her chair and did her best to keep the conversation going. "What did you used to do for fun?"

Kevin shrugged again. "Played video games. Hung out with friends. Played the cello…"

"You played the cello?" Nell repeated, impressed. She could play the guitar decently enough, but instruments with bows  _and_  strings required a dedication to practice that Nell had never had the patience for.

"Uh, yeah. I wasn't that great at it, though…" Nell suspected that Kevin's personal definition of 'not that great' was much closer to Nell's definition of 'pretty damn good,' but decided to let it lie. "What about you?"

"I have a guitar, but I'm just okay at it."

"No, I meant—" Kevin made a broad gesture that seemed meant to encompass the entire bunker. "What are you going to do now? Assuming Sam and Dean ever let you leave the bunker."

"It's not like they're here to stop me," Nell pointed out. "I could leave right now, if I wanted."

"Do you want to?" There was no judgment, only curiosity.

Nell shook her head slowly. "I don't know what to do anymore. What  _do_  you do, when you live forever?"

Kevin thought about it. "Well, what did you want to do? Before, I mean."

Nell shrugged. "Travel? Climb a mountain. Get a dog…" Nell's lips twisted. "Grow old with somebody."

"You can still do most of that," Kevin pointed out, though without much cheer.

"It won't be the same."

"Yeah."

Unhappy silence stretched over the library. Kevin stared down at his plate.

"You wanna watch a movie?"

Kevin looked up and stared at Nell, a little unsure. Nell stared back, hopeful.

"Sure. Why not?"

There was no television in the bunker and Kevin's room was covered in papers, so they retired to Nell's room, reclining on piles of pillows in her bed and watching  _Alien_  on her laptop between them. Kevin fell asleep halfway through. Nell didn't wake him.

* * *

The next night Nell lay on her bed, listening the the last chapter of  _Frankenstein_. While Nell would never risk giving Crowley a physical copy of a book, she didn't see the harm in audio books. She'd set the book to play earlier that day, and had returned in the evening just in time to catch the end.

The narrator's voice was pleasant and British. Nell had mixed feelings about the book, listening to it now. She had enjoyed it when she had first read it, years ago. But the story resonated with her rather differently now that she, too, was a monster, returned from the dead.

" _But soon," he cried with sad and solemn enthusiasm, "I shall die, and what I now feel be no longer felt. Soon these burning miseries will be extinct. I shall ascend my funeral pile triumphantly and exult in the agony of the torturing flames. The light of that conflagration will fade away; my ashes will be swept into the sea by the winds. My spirit will sleep in peace, or if it thinks, it will not surely think thus. Farewell."_

_He sprang from the cabin-window as he said this, upon the ice raft which lay close to the vessel. He was soon borne away by the waves and lost in darkness and distance._

Music swelled to life as the audiobook's credits began to play. Nell closed her laptop and the sound cut off.

"Crowley?"

"Mm?" The demon's contented hum did things to Nell's stomach that she did her best to ignore.

"How old are you?" Crowley  _looked_ , Nell remembered, like a reasonably attractive man in what was perhaps his early forties. But that would just be a vessel, and as Nell dwelled on her own future, she found herself wondering just how many years the demon had been around.

"That's a rather personal question, isn't it?" Despite the question he seemed more pleased than offended. "Why do you ask?"

"I'm curious."

"About little old me? I'm flattered."

Nell waited, but Crowley didn't continue. "Well?"

Crowley didn't answer immediately. Nell was beginning to wonder if he ever would when he said, slow and careful, "I was born in the latter half of the seventeenth century."

Nell jolted. She had forgotten, briefly, that demons had once been people. The book had mentioned it, of course, but Nell found it hard to imagine Crowley being human, let alone being born and growing up like everyone else. He was one of those people who seemed so sure of himself and what he was that it was almost impossible to believe he'd ever been anything else. If he'd told her that he'd simply taken form one day, a physical manifestation of the greed and temptation in the hearts of man, Nell thought she might have believed him.

Then the date sank in.

" _Jesus_." Despite her prior atheism, and current ambivalence about all matters religious, Nell had found and still did find that 'saying the name of the lord in vain' was one of the more satisfying swear words.

"Rather the opposite," Crowley reminded her, sounding a little smug.

"You're older than this country," Nell realized aloud. She had once seen a bonsai tree that was over 250 years old, which was amazing enough, but Crowley was even older than that.

"Well, that's hardly difficult," Crowley said, less smug and more dismissive now.

Nell shook her head in amazement, staring at the ceiling. "What do you even  _do_ with that much time?"

Crowley paused, then said irritably, "Oh my—you're getting  _maudlin._ " It was an accusation, laced with disgust. "Do you know how many people would  _kill_  to be in your position?"

Nell grimaced. "Killing happens to be one of the biggest drawbacks  _of_ my position."

"Please." Crowley scoffed. "If it ever got out that all it takes to live forever is drinking a little blood, I might never make another deal."

"I don't  _want_ to live forever," Nell insisted. Then, more to herself than to Crowley, murmured, "I would have preferred to die."

"Would you?" Crowley's voice was soft and doubtful. It deepened dangerously as he continued. "I was listening, remember? For all your protests, you couldn't quite reject it, could you? My blood."

Nell shuddered and squeezed her eyes shut. It didn't help. When she closed her eyes, she could see Crowley's face, laughing with bloodied teeth where Dean had punched him, just after he'd forced his blood down her throat.

"No," Crowley said, darkly pleased. "Deep down, I think you  _wanted_ to live."

"That's not what happened," Nell ground out, glaring at the ceiling. "I  _tried_ —I  _wanted_ —" Nell shook her head and said bitterly, "It's  _your_ fault."

"Darling," Crowley said, sweetly. "I've sold sin to saints for centuries. But here's the thing about temptation:  _you have to want it_."

"I wanted to be cured!" Nell insisted, more loudly now. Because she really believed it? Or because she wanted to believe it? She wasn't sure anymore. That was Crowley's fault, too.

"You wanted to live," Crowley said without mercy. Then he paused, and when he continued, his voice was smooth as chocolate, rich as—

"Or maybe… maybe you just wanted the blood."

"Stop." It was the only thing Nell could think to say. She was almost dizzy, and she needed Crowley to stop talking, now, or she wasn't sure what she would do. But her weak demand only seemed to encourage him.

"That's it, isn't it?" His voice was all dark satisfaction now. "What was it you said to Sam? 'Better than hot chocolate'. How much better, I wonder?"

" _Stop_ ," Nell said again, more urgently this time. "Crowley,  _stop_."

"You could have it anytime you wanted, you know," Crowley pressed on relentlessly. "I'm just down the hall."

Nell fisted her hands in her bedspread, trying to ground herself. Her chest heaved like she'd just run a mile. Against her will, her eyes found the door. He  _was_  just down the hall. She  _could_  have him any time she wanted. Sam and Dean were gone. They wouldn't even have to know…

"Door's probably not even locked. Not that a lock could stop you, if you wanted to get through," Crowley said, encouraging. "Come on, Nell. Have a taste."

Nell leapt up from her bed and flew out the door. It took every ounce of her tenuous self-control to turn right, towards the library, instead of left, towards the dungeon. Even out of the room she could still hear Crowley's voice ringing in her head, though she wasn't sure now if he was still talking or if her mind was simply playing and replaying his words, punishing her for turning down blood so freely offered.

She took her phone from a pocket and jammed headphones into her ears, starting an album at random to drown it out. Then she paced to the kitchen and gulped down a full liter of pig's blood to the  _Best of Queen_.

* * *

When the brothers came back from their hunt, Sam looked pale. He'd looked pale before he left, of course. Even back when she'd first met him, in the Grand Canyon, he'd looked as if he'd just barely recovered from a nasty flu. But now his face was nearly white, and for all that he pretended to be fine and brushed Dean off when he tried to urge his brother to finish the soup and sandwiches Nell had prepared for them when they returned, neither Nell nor Dean were fooled. Especially because, less than five minutes after Sam had pulled out a thick tome on angels and started to read, he had fallen asleep, head pillowed on the pages.

When Dean returned Sam's half-eaten food to the kitchen, face troubled, Nell greeted him with arms folded.

"What's wrong with Sam?" She kept her voice down, not wanting the conversation to carry and wake him. He looked like he needed the sleep.

"What?" Dean tried to look surprised, but only managed to look guilty. It was not reassuring. "Nothing's wrong with Sam. He's fine."

"No, he's not," Nell denied instantly. "You know he's not, I can tell. You're always trying to get him to eat more, sleep more. What's wrong with him?"

Dean clenched his jaw, staring at Nell in frustrated silence for a long moment. Then he shook his head. "It's nothing for you to worry about, alright? I'm taking care of it. He's getting better."

These last words sounded almost mantra-like, as if he'd been repeating them to himself often. Nell blinked and furrowed her brow, wondering where he'd got that idea.

"He isn't." Dean's mouth fell open like he was preparing to argue, or tell her she didn't know what she was talking about. Nell pressed on. "Dean, you took me to the hospital. I know what sickness smells like, what  _death_  smells like."

Dean went still at that.

"You know what I'm talking about," Nell said, because the pained look that was now forming on Dean's face left no doubt.

"When did you notice?" Dean's voice was rough and tired.

"As soon as the cure failed, I could smell it."

"But it's gotten better, right?" Dean asked, a little desperately. "He smells less sick now than before. Right?" His eyes were bright. Nell hated to disappoint him.

"No," Nell said regretfully. "I'm sorry, but he smells the same. Dean, what—"

Dean was already shaking his head, gaze going distant. His hands were fisted at his side so tightly that Nell thought he might strike something.

"It's complicated," he said. Then, catching Nell's still-worried look, "I'll look into it, alright? Just don't—don't mention this to Sam, okay?"

Nell did not like the sound of that at all, but against her better judgment she nodded. Dean nodded back, squaring his shoulders. He turned to leave the kitchen, then paused, looking back. "You'll let me know if anything changes. With his smell, I mean."

It was more a demand than a question, but Nell nodded anyway. "I'll let you know."

Nell made a point to keep an eye on Sam for the next few days. Dean was more overbearing, and Sam seemed to resent his attempts to get him to eat and sleep. Still, he obliged his brother a bit by getting more sleep and eating Nell's food, or at the very least pretending to, to get Dean off his back about it. But even Dean needed to sleep sometime, and it was while Dean was still sleeping one morning that Sam crept out of his room quietly and made for the stairs to the garage.

"Going out?"

Nell was a little satisfied out how Sam jumped and whirled to face her. For someone who lied as much as he did as part of his work, his face was transparently guilty. Nell waited patiently as Sam cleared his throat and tried to school his face.

"Uh, yeah. There's, uh—a farmer's market, on Saturdays." Sam hesitated, looking unsure. "You want to come?"

Nell hadn't left the bunker since going to the hospital with Dean. She would be glad to get out and about under more positive circumstances—and, if nothing else, she would keep an eye on Sam. And leave a note for Dean, in case he woke up while they were out.

"Let me fetch my hat."

Nell drove. She managed this, not by telling Sam that she was afraid, given his pallor, that he might fall asleep at the wheel and crash the Impala, but by mentioning that it had been weeks since she'd driven and that her car ought to be driven every once in a while if she wanted to keep it in good shape. Sam had accepted this reasoning easily enough, and so Nell drove and Sam navigated them through town.

Nell hadn't been keeping track of the days much. She figured it was late September, or maybe early October, by this point—the leaves on the trees were just starting to turn colors, and the corn that was high in the fields looked ready for harvest. The morning was cool, but the temperature rose some as they drove, and by the time Sam directed her to pull into the community center parking lot where the farmer's market was set up, it had warmed up pleasantly.

It was perfect weather, Nell thought: warm enough to be enjoyable, and to warrant the use of her wide-brimmed hat, but just cool enough that no one would look twice at her thin leather gloves.

"Do you come here often?" Nell asked when they parked. She fished out two canvas bags that she'd kept in her trunk for situations like this and handed one to Sam, who took it.

"Only once or twice," Sam said. "We don't like to hang around too long."

The market was nice. There were a number of vendors, with boxes and boxes of fresh produce, local meat products and cheeses, flowers, baked goods, coffee, juice, and fruit preserves. One stand overflowed with pumpkins, which were being picked over excitedly by children of various ages.

Sam bought some apples and pears, which were available in plentiful varieties. Nell selected some fresh vegetables and a few loaves of freshly-baked bread that were so beautiful that Nell mourned, once again, that she could no longer enjoy human food. And then, because it was available and she knew Dean would appreciate it, she picked up an apple pie.

With her bag full and her shopping done, Nell turned to Sam. "Ready to go?"

Sam nodded, and they turned to make their way towards the parking area once more. The older man at the booth they had stopped next to leaned across the table as they turned.

"Surely you are not leaving without some flowers for your beautiful girlfriend?" The man's voice was lightly accented—German, maybe—and his eyes twinkled. Sam halted and coughed awkwardly.

"She's not—" Sam's cheeks were going lightly pink. " _We're_  not—"

"Oh no?" The old man said, eyebrows raising in exaggerated surprise. Then he smiled slyly, "Well, I'm sure if you presented her with flowers—"

Nell shook her head and looped her arm through Sam's, tugging him away before he could stammer more any more denials. "You fell into his trap," she scolded lightly, releasing his arm. "He's just making assumptions. When you stop to correct him, he tries to make a sale."

"Right." Sam looked troubled for some reason. Nell decided to ignore this, and started to make for the car, before halting, looking at the smaller lot next to the farmer's market. It looked like a small flea market, with various paintings and trinkets and old clothes. But there was one table, near the end, that caught her eye.

"Hang on a second." Nell pivoted and made her way over, Sam following curiously.

The table was a disorganized mess of everything musical. Old sheet music for various instruments was spread out haphazardly, topped here and there with harmonicas. One corner of the table displayed a shiny French horn, and beside it two violins who looked like they had seen better days. Behind the table there was a stand with several brightly colored plastic ukuleles probably meant for children. But there, in front of the table and displayed prominently in its case, was a cello.

Nell hardly glanced at the price tag before inspecting it. It was a fair value, so long as nothing was wrong with the instrument. The pegs looked good, and the strings were solid. Nell received permission from the woman running the table to take the instrument out of the case to inspect the wood, and then the bow.

"You play the cello?" Sam asked, watching Nell as she looked over the instrument carefully.

Nell shook her head. "It's not for me." She couldn't find anything wrong with it, so Nell didn't bother to haggle. She pulled the full list price of the cello in cash from her wallet, and handed it to the woman behind the table. "It's for Kevin."

Sam opened his mouth, then shut it. Nodded at the cello. "Let me carry that."

Nell glanced at the woman behind the table, who was now teaming up with a five year old to convince his mother about the merits of plastic ukuleles. "I know I don't exactly look it, but I  _am_  stronger than you."

"You're right," Sam agreed. "You  _don't_ look it. Which is why it'd be weird to see you carrying something this big without any effort, while the guy with you carries a few bags of vegetables."

Sam held out said bags, and looked at her expectantly. Nell sighed and took them. Sam hefted the cello, and his own size made the large instrument looked smaller than it should. He carried it to the car, and though Nell watched him carefully for signs of strain, he looked no paler than usual. There was even something of a health flush to his cheeks when he climbed back into the passenger seat of Nell's car.

Hopefully, Nell took a quick, deep breath through her nose. She had to look quickly and intently at the road to hide how quickly her expression dropped.

The smell lingered.

* * *

Kevin's birthday, Nell discovered through some light Facebook stalking, was December 2nd. She didn't want to wait that long to gift him the cello, though, so instead that night she persuaded him to actually sit down to dinner with Sam and Dean, and then, when the meal was finished, told him to stay where he was. Dean watched her dart up the stairs, confused by Nell's behavior and Sam's small, knowing smile.

Uncertainty twisted in her gut now, as she came down the last few steps and stood in front of Kevin with the instrument's case. Kevin was staring, unblinking.

Had this been a bad idea? Nell had hardly thought about it. She had simply seen the cello, thought of Kevin, and purchased it immediately. Maybe he wouldn't like it. Maybe it was just bringing up bad memories. Maybe—

"You got me a cello." Kevin's voice was a little distant, but not upset. Nell wasn't sure what to make of it, and so she babbled nervously.

"You said you used to like playing it, and I saw it today, so I just thought—" Nell cut herself off anxiously as Kevin gently took the case and opened it. "It might not be perfectly in tune. I tried my best, but…"

Nell fell silent as Kevin took the instrument out, sitting down and positioning it carefully. He lifted the bow almost reverently, and Nell realized, just before he put bow to strings, that she hadn't made a mistake, after all.

Kevin shut his eyes while he played. Nell could hardly believe that he hadn't touched a cello in over a year. The lack of practice wasn't at all apparent, fingers moving expertly on the strings and moving the bow, producing rich sounds that filled the whole library. The tune Kevin played was unfamiliar to Nell, slow and mournful and bittersweet. If Nell were still capable of tears, her eyes might have watered.

Kevin finished the song. His hands stilled. He kept his eyes closed for a long moment, breathing deeply. Then he opened them, and for the first time ever Nell saw something like happiness in them.

"Thank you."

* * *

Despite Dean's best efforts to discourage him, Sam grew restless quickly, and within a week they were preparing to hit the road again for another case. This time Nell presented them with a small care package of snacks for the road, a carafe of iced coffee, and a stern warning to not get themselves killed.

By the time the sun set that evening, the coffee was long gone and a decent dent had been made in the snacks. Dean was just considering whether to stop for dinner somewhere along the road or make do with more blueberry muffins until they stopped for the night when Sam huffed a laugh in the passenger seat. Dean glanced over to see his brother smiling down at his phone.

"What are you snickering at?"

Sam looked up, smile faltering a little. "Oh. Uh, apparently Kevin fell asleep on the tablet and it left imprints of the cuneiform on his face," Sam explained, a little sheepishly. "Nell sent a picture."

Sam held up the phone, and Dean glanced at the picture only briefly—Kevin, eyes groggy and left cheek imprinted with ancient symbols—before turning back to the road. He sighed wearily.

"...Dude, you gotta stop falling for the monster chicks."

"What?" Sam's voice was high and incredulous. "What are you talking about?"

"Come on, man," Dean said seriously. He began to list them off. "The werewolf? The kitsune? The  _demon_?"

Dean saw Sam's face darken from the corner of his eye. "You're seriously going to bring that up now?"

Dean shook his head. "I'm just saying, don't add vampire to your list, okay?"

"I'm not!"

"Uh-huh," Dean said, doubtfully. "I know you. Cute monster-damsels in distress is your thing."

"Cute, huh," Sam said, raising his eyebrows. Dean shot him a dirty look.

"Don't try and turn this back on me, man. Just because I've got eyes doesn't mean I've got the hots for her."

"Neither do I!" Sam sounded so exasperated that Dean thought he was probably being honest. He nodded in satisfaction.

"Good."

The car was quiet for a few long minutes. Sam was still stewing in the passenger seat. Dean wondered if he should put on some music, but doubted it would really delay whatever Sam was currently working up to say. Instead he drove, and he waited, and he counted three separate billboards for drug addiction clinics before Sam finally spoke.

"If I  _did_ , I don't see how it'd be any of your business."

It took a great deal of effort for Dean not to pound his hands on the steering wheel. He settled for gripping it tightly as he said, "Of course it'd be my damn business!"

Sam gave Dean a wide-eyed look at his volume. "What is your  _problem_? It can't be that she's a vampire. Benny—"

Dean shot his brother a venomous look to communicate how little he wanted to hear Sam talk about Benny ever again.

"I like her, okay?" Dean said, irritated. Then, at Sam's raised eyebrows, "Not like  _that_! I just.." Dean paused, struggling to find the right words. "...like having her around."

It sounded lame event to his ears. Sam still looked skeptical. Dean rolled his eyes.

"I dunno how else to explain it, okay? It just feels like… I don't know, since she's been there, the place feels more like a home." Dean didn't even know it was true until he said it out loud. He frowned. "Sounds crazy when I say it out loud like that."

"It's not crazy," Sam assured him. He had calmed down now, and no longer seemed to want to pick a fight. Gazing thoughtfully out the window he added, "I guess we haven't really had anyone to take care of us and call us idiots since…"

"Bobby," Dean finished. Sam nodded. They were both quiet for a long moment, remembering.

"Yeah," Sam said finally. Then, with a forcibly light voice he added, "It would never have worked out, anway. She told me I  _smell_ bad."

Sam glanced over, perhaps expecting Dean to laugh or tease him. Instead Dean said, in a voice just a little too high and tense, "Oh?"

Sam shrugged good-humoredly. "Yeah. Weird, right? I wonder if it's because of the cure, or the demon blood…" He trailed off thoughtfully.

"Yeah, right," Dean agreed, swallowing hard. "Weird."

* * *

Sam and Dean's hunt ended, but they found another one nearby. The brothers called to make sure that Nell and Kevin would be fine on their own if they stayed away longer, and Nell told them to take as long as they needed to. She would have to visit the butcher's shop in town to replenish her stock of blood, but Sam had pointed the place out to her when they drove to the farmer's market. They would be fine.

That night Kevin watched with a frown while Nell plugged her nose and choked down a large glass of lukewarm pig's blood. Nell had found over time that the stuff was marginally more palatable if she could drown out the unappetizing scent of old blood with the far more pleasant smells of her own cooking, so there was a hearty soup simmering on the stove and fresh bread baking in the oven while she knocked it back.

"That bad?" Kevin asked, looking at the bloody glass with mild disgust.

Nell hummed vaguely and licked the film of blood off her teeth, wrinkling her nose and tossing the empty plastic container in the trash. She did her best not to complain about the animal blood, or even think about it too much. If she dwelled on how awful it was, how little it sated the twisting hunger that was lingering, always, at the back of her mind, she feared she'd grow discontent with it. She feared she'd crave something better. And  _that_ wasn't an option.

So she didn't complain.

"You don't have to drink that, you know."

Nell's eyes snapped to Kevin lightning-quick. His face was open and helpful, but there was a tightness around his eyes that was almost angry.

"Yes, I do." Nell said slowly, keeping her voice calm and low only with effort. "Whatever you're thinking, stop thinking it."

"Why should you have to drink animal blood when Crowley is just down the hall?"

Nell turned away so Kevin wouldn't notice her teeth descending involuntarily. She busied herself stirring the soup. "No, Kevin."

Her voice was final, but Kevin ignored it. "Why? At least then he could be of use. He's  _evil._  He doesn't deserve your sympathy."

"It's not sympathy," Nell muttered irritably at the soup.

"What, then?" Kevin sounded almost impatient. "Just because Sam and Dean wouldn't approve?"

"You know they wouldn't, but that's not the reason, either." Nell took a deep inhale of the soup, letting the smells overwhelm her until her fangs retracted. She turned to Kevin, feeling marginally calmer, and eyed him seriously.

"There is no way I could possibly describe to you how  _good_  his blood tasted." Nell's voice was hardly more than a whisper. Kevin's eyes went wide.

"I only had  _drops_  of it, and it's still the best thing I've ever experienced," Nell continued, voice rough. "Better than food. Better than sex. And you  _can't imagine_  how tempting it is, knowing he's tied up, helpless, just down the hall. Waiting. Right there, when every moment at the back of my mind there's this horrible thirst that is never, ever completely quenched."

Kevin swallowed loudly. Nell watched the motion with almost clinical detachment.

"I have managed to distract myself from that temptation. I focus on cooking, and reading, and music, and I choke down as much of this foul animal blood as I can stomach. And through distraction and sheer force of will, I can stop myself from walking down that hallway. But if I ever drank Crowley's blood again—even a drop—I don't think I could stop myself."

Kevin's heart was beating rapidly, his pupils dilated. Afraid of her, Nell knew. As he should be. As much as she liked to pretend that she was still human, she  _wasn't_ , and she couldn't let Kevin pretend if it was going to give him such dangerous ideas.

Kevin swallowed again and seemed to force himself to relax. "...Right. Animal blood it is, then."

Kevin looked at her a little differently after that. Warier. But when Nell continued to cook and read and go about her day without any further indication of her monstrous nature, he relaxed. And the grateful smiles he'd shoot her when she snuck some fruit onto his desk while he worked warmed Nell's heart a little more than they had before, because for the first time he really saw the vampire he was offering them to.

* * *

Nell had just about perfected the art of stealth, at least when it came to navigating her room in silence. She had been coming and going quietly for days, just long enough to change clothes or fetch her belongings, without ever making enough noise to alert Crowley to her presence.

At least, until today, when she dropped her hairbrush on her way to the bathroom. It clattered to the floor noisily and seemed to echo through the room. Nell winced as the brush stilled and the noise faded. She waited.

"You've been avoiding me," Crowley said flatly.

"You kept trying to tempt me," Nell said, then winced. Crowley's words from before echoed in her mind immediately.  _That's the thing about temptation: you have to want it._

"Can you blame me?" Crowley asked plaintively. "I've got nothing to read, nothing to do, not even the freedom to stretch my legs. I've only got you."

Nell said nothing, staring at her dropped hairbrush with wide eyes. Should she correct him? The wording was strangely intimate, somehow. Nell felt compelled to tell him that he didn't 'have' her, but couldn't seem to form the words.

"You didn't even put any music on."

Crowley sounded almost hurt. Nell sighed, picked up her brush, and then put it and the bundle of clothes she'd gathered back down on her bed. She opened her computer and clicked around for some music, starting a long playlist of R&B classics.

"No," Crowley said as soon as the music started. "Don't."

Nell hit pause. "Do you want something else?"

"Not if it means you're going to leave again," Crowley said. Nell said nothing, because it did mean that. "Talk to me, Nell."

"About what?" Nell asked, trying to keep her voice neutral and disinterested.

"Anything."

Nell chewed her lip for a moment. "...I don't think that's a good idea."

"That never stopped you before," Crowley said hopefully. "Talk to me. Read something. Sing something. Anything." Then, quietly, " _Please_."

Conversation was probably a bad idea, and Nell hated reading aloud. But she'd sang for Crowley before, and the world hadn't ended.

"Okay." Nell pulled out her guitar and tuned it. This time, Crowley was treated to  _You're So Vain_  uninterrupted, and with musical accompaniment. Nell put her guitar away as soon as she was finished. She'd already done more than she should.

"Nell," said Crowley. Nell buckled the guitar case shut.

"Crowley," said Nell. She returned the case to the corner of the room, opposite the ruined shards of the desk she'd destroyed weeks ago.

"Let me out."

"No."

"I'm going mad in here, Nell," Crowley pressed, voice rising. "I'm just sitting here, while Abaddon wreaks havoc. She won't stop at Hell, you know. I  _have_ to get out."

"Talk to Sam and Dean, then," Nell said, though she wasn't sure it would do any good. "Make a deal."

"I'm trying to make a deal with  _you_."

"No."

"Why not?" Crowley demanded impatiently. "You said it yourself. I tempt you. Why shouldn't we both get what we want?"

Nell swallowed thickly, then turned back to her computer. "I'll leave some music on for you this time."

"Don't you walk away from me, Nell," Crowley growled even as The Shirelles started singing about how  _Mama said there'd be days like this_. "I am the King of Hell. I am the reason you are alive, you ungrateful little  _worm_!"

Nell scooped up her clothes and held tight to her hairbrush as she hurried out the door. Crowley kept talking, voice low and dripping with acid.

"I will get out of here one day, Nell," he promised. "I always do. And when I do…"

Nell didn't listen to whatever Crowley planned to do when he got out. She darted down the hall to the bathroom and turned the water on full blast, standing under the spray and focusing on the noise of the water and the groaning of the pipes. No matter how hot the water got, she shivered.

When Sam and Dean wrapped up their hunt and found their way back to the bunker a week later, they found Nell sitting unnaturally still in the library, fingers steepled before her mouth as if in deep thought. Her eyes were distant, and they didn't even flicker in their direction as he and Sam tromped down the stairs. It was, Dean thought, pretty damn creepy.

Both brothers set their bags down on a table in the library. Nell didn't so much as twitch, and Sam shot Dean a baffled, worried look.

"Nell," Dean said at last, cautiously. He was hesitant to get close, in case she was truly so out of it that he'd startle her. "What are you doing?"

Nell blinked. Her eyes came back into focus, flickering between Dean and Sam and the hallway behind them. She opened her mouth, hesitated, then said finally, "Listening."

Dean looked around the bunker, ears perked, but couldn't hear anything.

"Listening to what?"

Nell hesitated again. Her eyes wandered back to the hallway. "Crowley."

"Crowley is talking?" Sam asked, surprised. Nell looked at him and nodded. "And you can hear him from here?" Another nod. "What's he saying?"

At the moment he wasn't  _saying_  much of anything, so much as breathing hard, rattling breaths. Nell wasn't sure whether they stemmed from overwhelming anger or if Crowley was actually crying—it wouldn't have been the first time. His emotions had been a roller coaster for the last week, ranging from utter despair to pure homicidal rage.

"Threats, mostly," Nell said, which was true if not the whole truth. "But it's rather hard to take them seriously when he's all tied up in there."

"Has he said anything?" Sam asked, looking interested. "Anything we don't know, anything useful?"

She didn't know what all the Winchesters knew about Crowley. Perhaps the things he had occasionally babbled and ranted, about his life before he died, about his mother, about Hell and demons and human blood, would not be a surprise to them.

"...No," Nell said finally, shaking her head. "Just nonsense."

The Winchesters glanced at each other, communicating silently. Sam nodded, and Dean walked down the hall. There was a great amount of yelling and cursing for only a minute, and then silence from the dungeon.


	7. Chapter 7

Kevin heaped a small mountain of papers onto the table. Each sheet was covered in bizarre words and symbols, most of it in languages Nell couldn't even recognize, let alone read.

Sam looked at Kevin skeptically. "That's your 'big news'? You translated the tablet into… doodles?"

There was an underlying derisive tone in Sam's voice that Nell didn't appreciate. The Winchesters asked a lot of Kevin, and the kid worked hard. Harder than he should, a lot of the time.

"This is some sort of cuneiform, isn't it?" Nell asked, because it looked vaguely like some old examples she'd seen in textbooks, and because she wanted Kevin to know that at least  _she_  appreciated how hard he was working on all of this.

"Yeah, it is," Kevin replied, looking a little relieved. His hands were clenching and unclenching, and trembling a little, like they weren't accustomed to being still after clutching a pen for so long.

"I hit a wall translating the tablet into English. But I found an ancient codex linking the Angel script to proto-Elamite cuneiform, and I was able to translate the tablet and the footnotes into Elamite, which is…" Kevin trailed off, looking a little uncertain now.

"Doodles," Dean repeated flatly. Nell bristled at the tone, and had to clench her jaw hard as Kevin's shoulders slumped.

"It's extinct," Kevin admitted.

Sam peered down at the scattered papers and frowned thoughtfully. "Well, can you read it?"

Kevin shook his head slowly. The excitement with which he'd brought the papers into the library had almost completely disappeared now, replaced with resigned exhaustion. Nell wanted very badly to hug him, or maybe punch Dean, but resisted both temptations. "No one can. Scholars have tried for centuries."

"So it's a dead end?" Dean slapped the papers on the table with a little more force than strictly necessary, frustration clear in every line of his body. Kevin started a little at the motion, and Nell's teeth itched with repressed irritation.

"Not quite," Kevin said, hope not entirely gone. "Now, most proto-Elamite is abstract, but I was able to decipher one phrase from Metatron's footnotes: 'Falling angels'."

Sam perked up visibly. "Okay, so, the footnotes refer to Metatron's spell?"

"Maybe." Kevin seemed to be caught between excitement and not getting his hopes up.

"Okay." Sam furrowed his brow, crossing the room on too-long legs to scan the books there intently, running his finger along spines and pulling out huge tomes. "Well, maybe if we can decipher the footnotes, then we can reverse the spell and…"

"Punt those winged dicks back to heaven," Dean completed, seeming to catch the excitement. He slapped the table eagerly. "Where do we start?"

Sam thunked a huge stack of books down on the table, looking grim. "Research." Dean's face fell. "We comb through the library, see if we can find anything else on Elamite."

Dean made a face at the book like it was a plate of steamed vegetables. "Zimmerman's Encyclopedia of Extinct Languages … Volume One: Adai to Atakapa. How many volumes are there?"

"24," Kevin answered, already cracking open a book. At Dean's horrified look, Kevin reassured him, "Don't worry, we've found them all."

"Awesome," Dean said, not sounding at all enthused. He cast a pleading look at his brother, who huffed and opened his own book. Forlorn, Dean began to open his own when his phone rang. His shoulders sagged in relief.

"There is a God," he muttered, walking a few paces away from the table to take the call.

Nell only listened with half an ear to Dean's stilted conversation with 'Cas'. She was too distracted by the buzzing anger heating her blood. She liked Sam and Dean well enough, but they were callous sometimes. They had spent far too long relying on each other and protecting each other at the expense of everyone else, and it showed in how they treated Kevin. It was bad enough that they let him work himself half to death trying to translate the damn angel tablet. Now, when Kevin finally made some sort of break in the translation, every other word out of their mouths was a complaint.

They hadn't complimented Kevin on the find. They hadn't even so much as thanked him. They'd just put another book in his hand and expected him to get back to work—and he had, because he was a good kid and he just wanted all of this to be  _over_.

"Cas found a case," Dean said when the phone call ended. "I'm gonna go check it out."

He turned down the hallway towards his bedroom, presumably to pack a bag. Sam stared after him for a second, confused, then rose from the table. "Don't you mean  _we're_  gonna go check it out?" He followed his brother down the hall, leaving Nell and Kevin sitting alone at the table with piles of books and research.

Nell's teeth ground together. She squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to take a deep breath to calm down. This did not work.

"I'll be right back," Nell told Kevin softly, rising from the table herself. Kevin shrugged with the resigned apathy of someone who is utterly used to being left alone to do all the research on his own.

"So then, what's the point, Dean?" Sam was saying as Nell approached the open door to Dean's bedroom. Dean was tossing clothes into his bag haphazardly, and weapons with a little more care. "I mean, it's barely even a case."

Dean shrugged. "That's why I'm just gonna go have a little look-see, and … we're not gonna waste a whole lot of manpower on a big pile of nada."

Sam paused. Then, sourly, "So in other words, you're just looking for any excuse to bail on research."

"You got me," Dean said, utterly unapologetic.

Nell stopped in the doorway. She resisted the urge to fold her arms across her chest—it felt like that would be too distinctly  _feminine_  expression of anger, one that the brothers might use to dismiss her words as  _unreasonable_  and  _emotional_.

Instead she kept her arms at her sides, her back straight, and said flatly, "You two are assholes."

Sam jerked a little in surprise, whirling to face her. Dean raised his eyebrows, apparently surprised at both the outburst and the language.

"What?" He asked, looking half-lost, half-amused. "What'd we do?"

"You treat Kevin like shit, is what you do." Nell's eyes were burning, and for once she was glad she couldn't cry anymore. The tears she wanted to shed in pure frustrated anger would have only made her seem less credible, she knew. "He's practically a zombie working on that damn tablet night and day, and when he finally comes up with a breakthrough, all you can do is bitch at him. And now, you're leaving."

"He translated the tablet into a dead language!" Dean protested, starting to grow defensively angry himself. "What the hell did you want us to do with that?"

"How about a  _Thank you, Kevin, for poring over a tablet for days and days and coming up with some sort of solution_?"

"What 'solution'?" Dean ground out. "It's just another problem. You saw all those books."

"It's the first step to one, and it's the best thing you've got so far," Nell bit back sharply. "You don't give him any credit."

"I'll give him  _credit_  when he finds a way to get the angels back in heaven."

Sam opened his mouth then, and spoke in a soft, soothing tone. It must have been meant to placate her, but when combined with his next words it did the opposite.

"Nell, this is  _important_." He opened his mouth to continue, but Nell cut him off.

"So is Kevin!" She shook her head, taking a step back and balling her hands into fists. She was getting too angry, and if she continued on like this she didn't know what she would do. She wanted to  _hurt_  them for hurting Kevin, and it took every ounce of restraint she had not to do so physically.

But the aggression had to slip out somehow, and before Nell could even process what a colossally bad idea it was, Nell muttered spitefully, "You're just like your father."

Silence. It was disbelieving silence at first—both men's eyes went wide with shock—but then it became thick with repressed anger.

"Where the hell do you get off?" Dean's voice was lower than Nell had ever heard it before. "What the hell do you know about our dad, huh?"

Nell swallowed, then glanced away. There would be no hiding it now. "...I read the Supernatural books."

"What?" Sam breathed the question in his shock, but his voice grew louder as he demanded, "When? How did you even  _know_ about those?"

"A few weeks ago." Nell paused to let that sink in before she said, "And they weren't hard to find. Did you really think I wouldn't at least Google you?"

It was not technically a lie. Nell did not want Sam and Dean to know that she had spoken to Crowley, much less that he had told her about the books and that she had listened to him and read them.

"Weeks," Sam repeated, sounding almost winded.

"So you know…" Dean trailed off.

"More than I ever wanted to know about you, frankly, yes," Nell finished. "I'm sorry for bringing it up, especially like that—but I stand by the sentiment. You two grew up in this. This has been your life, and you  _chose_  it, over and over again. You both had the chance to give it up, and you didn't. Kevin never had that choice. I'm sick of you treating him like a prophet instead of a human being. When was the last time you said a word to him that wasn't about the tablet? About what he can do for you? About what he has to do for the world, because you say so?"

"That's not fair," Dean started.

"No, it's not fair!" Nell said, voice rising. "It's not fair to  _him_! You keep asking more and more of him, and you never even stop to say thank you! He works for hours on end, burdened by guilt, with you two making him feel like every death at the hands of an angel is his fault!"

"He is the only one who can stop this!" Dean shouted back. "We need him to decode that tablet, and end it!"

"WOULD YOU ALL STOP FIGHTING?"

Nell shut her mouth. Kevin just beyond her in the hall, looking tired.

"I'm  _right here_." He looked between all three of them, and apparently decided he didn't have the energy to deal with their argument. He jerked his head back toward the library. "...This Elamite isn't going to translate itself."

Dean left without another word. Sam, Kevin, and Nell all returned to the library and sat down to research in tense silence.

They were at it for hours. When Sam and Kevin started to sigh heavily and rub their eyes, Nell got up to put on a pot of coffee and returned with two cups of a strong, dark brew and a small plate heaped with blueberry muffins. Sam shot her a grateful look, while Kevin's hand snaked out to grab a muffin seemingly of its own accord. His eyes never left the page he was scanning unblinkingly.

Nell did her best to scan the volumes she'd been assigned, but she couldn't find even the barest mention of Elamite, let alone anything that would prove useful to them in translating Kevin's scribblings. While Nell didn't tire physically anymore, she did tire mentally, and she valued the brief breaks afforded to her by coffee and snack runs when the words on the pages all seemed to meld together into one opaque, nonsensical mass.

Maybe eight hours later, Sam's phone rang. He stood up from the table and walked a few paces away so as not to disturb Kevin's manic page-flipping. Nell, however, leaned back in her chair and shamelessly eavesdropped on the conversation.

"Yeah, we're almost through the texts over here," Sam paused, sighing. "We got nothing."

"Have you tried Professor Morrison?" Dean asked. Sam had. He'd ducked away at one point and spent nearly 45 minutes on the phone trying to get in touch with the man, to no avail.

"Yeah, he's unreachable. He took a sabbatical to live amongst the Trobrianders of Papua New Guinea. Needless to say, we're pretty burnt."

Dean was quiet for a moment before saying, determined, "Well, there's one guy there who is nothing if not well-rested."

Sam paused a moment, then straightened. "Crowley?"

Kevin stiffened at the name. Nell ducked her head into her book to hide the shameful, near-Pavlovian response she had to the demon's name.

"I'm just saying we're not keeping him chained up for the one-liners," Dean said, tone practical.

Sam shrugged, though he didn't seem too hopeful. "It's worth a shot, I guess."

"Just be careful, alright?" Dean warned, all brotherly concern. "Don't fall for any of his 'quid pro quo' crap."

"Noted. So, what about you? How's Cas's lead panning out?"

"Four victims suddenly exploded. I tried EMF. I've looked for hex bags, sulfur—nada."

"Spontaneous combustion?" Sam guessed. "Maybe the Thule?"

"No, no, no. I already ruled them out. The bodies were vaporized. They weren't burned."

"That sounds like a real case." Sam sounded concerned. "Dean, I should be there."

"Naw, man," Dean said, a little too quickly. "That's—uh… not necessary." Was he  _trying_  to sound suspicious? "No, I, uh—I got this one covered." Dean hung up without further conversation, leaving Sam to stare at his phone in puzzlement.

"Is he cheating on you, or something?" Nell joked. Sam's face contorted in disgust for a moment, but then he returned to scowling at his phone.

"I don't know what's up with him lately. I feel like he's trying to hide something, but I can't imagine what it could be about..." A deep line appeared between Sam's brow. "This thing with the angels is too important to be keeping secrets."

Nell remembered, suddenly and uncomfortably, how Dean had asked her not to mention anything to Sam about the sick smell that still lingered around him. Were the two things connected?

"Did you say Crowley before?" Kevin asked flatly, interrupting Sam's brooding.

"Uh, yeah," Sam nodded. "If he can read Enochian, maybe he can read Elamite." Sam shrugged. "It's worth a shot."

Kevin looked mutinous for a moment, but then he caught sight of the mess of books and papers on the table. He sighed heavily. "Okay. We'll ask Crowley."

Sam cleared his throat softly. "How about  _I_  ask Crowley?"

Kevin relaxed back in his chair. "Yeah, okay. That sounds good." Sam plodded off down the hall. Kevin leaned forward on the table, seemed to consider reading, and then simply gave up, resting his head on the large book and drifting off into a light doze. Nell propped her head in her hand and listened.

Sam opened the doors to the dungeon. There was a soft rattling of chains as Sam entered, then a scraping of metal and a crinkle of paper. "Can you read this? Elamite?"

A pointed, muffled clearing of a throat.

"It's a simple yes or no, Crowley." A long, stubborn silence. Sam huffed. "Fine." There was a rustle of fabric.

Crowley grumbled, voice no longer muffled. "A gag? Really? Isn't it a little much?"

"With you? Nothing is too much."

"Oh, Moose. You're making me blush."

Sam crinkled the paper again, voice impatient. "Can you read Elamite or not?"

"It's by no means my favorite of the ancient tongues, but yes," Crowley drawled. His confidence and poise seemed unaffected by being locked up in a dungeon for weeks.

"Will you help us read it?" Sam asked immediately.

"Why on earth would I?"

Sam paused, then said, voice fierce, "Because I was there that night. I saw what humanity did to you." Crowley scoffed, though his heart rate was elevated a little. "Like it or not, there's still a little part of you that's not a douche."

"Sorry, Moose. To the last drop."

There was a scrape of metal. Sam's voice took on the low, rough, dangerous quality Nell had heard when he threatened her with a knife. "Crowley, the only reason you're alive is because my brother thought you would be useful. So far you've done jack." Sam sighed. "Back to plan 'B,' I guess." The paper crinkled again and Sam began to walk away.

"Which is?" Nell could practically hear the eye-roll in the demon's voice.

"Give you up to Abaddon," Sam said frankly. Nell felt a little thrill of panic at that thought, for some reason. She decided not to think about it.

"You think you can threaten me with that  _hack_?!" Crowley growled. Sam's steps paused. "She's all fury, no finesse."

"I'm not so sure," Sam said doubtfully. "Our last encounter with Abaddon, she was pretty terrifying. Scarier than you've been in years." Sam laughed a little.

Crowley was silent for a moment, then said, voice low, "Bring that to me."

Nell was initially amazed that Sam's transparent manipulation had been so successful. Sam walked back toward Cowley and handed him the paper. There was a small pause, and then a crinkling of chains and paper, and a soft impact. If Nell had to guess, she'd say Crowley crumpled up the paper and threw it at Sam.

Sure enough, Sam walked back down the hall toward the library, face a thundercloud. Kevin snapped out of his doze as Sam entered, and he looked unsurprised by the expression on Sam's face.

"That well, huh?"

Sam rolled his shoulders. "He won't read it right now, but give it a few hours, or days. He'll agree eventually."

Kevin looked doubtful, but apparently decided not to question Sam's logic.

"Well, since we're done reading and are now waiting out the stubbornness of a demon, why don't you two take a nap, or a shower, or both, and I'll get some dinner started?" Nell proposed brightly, returning the extinct language encyclopedias to their place on the library shelves.

Sam huffed a little, probably at her implication that he hadn't showered in over a day and smelled like it, but walked down the hall, apparently seeing the merit in her suggestion. Kevin stood slowly and stretched, moving to follow him, but paused in the doorway.

"Hey, Nell?" Nell looked at him, pausing in her clean up at the serious look on this face. "Thanks." The word was weighty and full of meaning, and it warmed something in Nell's chest where her heart used to beat.

"You're very welcome."

It wasn't until evening, when Kevin and Sam were eating pasta and Nell was putting a batch of cookies in the oven, that Crowley began to holler for 'Moose'.

"Sam," she called from the kitchen, removing her oven mitts and wondering, curiously, if touching a hot baking pan would even burn her now. She made a note to find out.

Sam swallowed his food before speaking, a courtesy she wished he could convince his brother to adopt. "Yeah?"

Nell tipped her head down the hall. "He's asking for Moose."

Sam grimaced, but scraped away from the table and disappeared down the hall. Nell listened to the now-familiar turning of locks and creaking of doors. Sam was silent as he entered the dungeon.

"I'll do it," Crowley said after a moment. "But I want something in return."

For Kevin's benefit, and because she didn't want to look like a lunatic staring intently down the hall and ignoring him, Nell quietly repeated Sam and Crowley's conversation for him.

"Yeah, what's that?" Sam did not sound in a mood to negotiate.

"A telephone call." Sam scoffed, apparently unwilling to even consider the idea. He began to walk out again. Crowley cried out after him, "Come on, Moose! Even Dahmer got one telephone call."

Crowley alternated bargaining and insults as Sam shut the doors behind him and made his way out into the main room. Despite his walking out on Crowley, he looked thoughtful.

"Who would he call?" Nell asked, curious who Crowley's phone-a-friend would be.

"Abaddon, probably." At Nell's blank look, Sam elaborated. "She's a Knight of Hell. One of the strongest, baddest demons out there. She's currently in a kind of war with Crowley over who gets to rule Hell. She's also the reason this bunker's so empty—" Sam gestured at the expansive place. "She killed all the living members of the society that created it."

All of this Nell already knew, although she nodded like this was new information. Abaddon's existence wasn't what puzzled her. "But if they're at war, why would he call her?"

"He probably wants to see whether she's managed to conquer hell while he's been locked up." Sam said. Nell nodded slowly, agreeing with that reasoning.

"Seriously?" Kevin bit out. "You want to let Crowley communicate with Abaddon? A king and a power-mad Knight of Hell isn't enough for you? You want to throw a demonic team-up into the mix?"

Sam shook his head, speaking slowly, as if he was just working out his thoughts out loud. "I don't think so. I mean, I don't trust Crowley, either. But I can't honestly see him working with Abaddon. He hates her too much."

Kevin grit his teeth. "You said it. You can't trust him."

"We don't have to," Sam insisted. "Look, Crowley's bound. We can end the call whenever we want. Even if he  _wanted_  to give Abaddon information, he has none to give her. He doesn't even know where the bunker is."

Kevin's lips were thin, eyes narrowed as he considered. Finally he asked, grudgingly, "He says he can decrypt the translation?" Sam nodded. "What if he's lying?"

"You're right," said Sam. "We're gonna need proof."

Kevin trailed Sam back down the hall. Nell paced the library and listened once more.

"Okay, Crowley," Sam said. "One phone call,  _after_  you've proven you can read Elamite." There was a small sound as the paper was presumably pushed across the table. "What are these?"

Crowley was quiet for a moment, then said, in a vague, taunting tone, "Ingredients."

"More specific," Sam said, frustrated.

"Ingredients…" The paper was shoved across the table again. "For a spell." The paper was shoved once more, and Crowley heaved a put-upon sigh. "Heart of a Nephilim. Cupid's bow. Grace of an angel." He sounded as bored as if he was reading a grocery list.

"And the rest of them," Kevin demanded.

"Phone call," Crowley said firmly. "You'll get the rest when I get paid. Now. Who's gonna be a dear and open up a vein?"

Nell turned to stare at the hallway, momentarily confused. Why the hell would one of them need to 'open up a vein' for a phone call? It took her a moment to remember from the books the demonic method of long-distance communication, and its need for a bowl of human blood. There was a small rustling, clunking sound, and Sam exhaled a short breath.

Crowley interrupted whatever was going on—Sam drawing his own blood, probably—with a noise of protest. Sam sighed through his nose, impatient. "What?"

"Not yours. His."

Kevin's heart began to pick up a bit. Sam asked stubbornly, "What difference does it make?"

"I've had yours. Stuck in here, you can't fault me for wanting a little variety."

"No way!" Kevin nearly shouted.

"What's wrong, Short Round?" Crowley taunted. "Afraid of needles?"

"No," Kevin said, voice cold, "I just have a policy of not giving blood to anyone who's murdered my mother."

"I," Crowley said lazily, unconcerned, "have nothing… but time."

"You're a dick," Sam said firmly. The rustling fabric sounded once more.

"Good luck with that translation," Crowley said lightly.

Kevin's heart rate picked up again. He huffed a frustrated breath, and picked something up with a clatter. A syringe, probably. Soon after, the sound of thick liquid emptying into a container sounded, and Crowley began chanting. Mysterious, murky whispers Nell couldn't understand followed.

"This is Crowley," he said, imperious. "Connect me to—" He paused, then repeated, annoyed, "Crowley!"

In an apparent aside to Sam and Kevin, Crowley muttered, "Bad connection."

Then, "Crowley.  _Your king_." There was another pause. "If you don't connect me to Abaddon right away, I will be forced to—" Crowley cut off abruptly, heaving a frustrated, disbelieving breath.

"What?" Sam asked. "What happened?"

Sounding like he'd sucked on a lemon, Crowley replied, "I've been placed on hold."

There was a tense silence for several long minutes. Finally Sam asked, "How long does it take to transfer a demonic phone call?"

"Can it, Moose."

"Crowley, you got your call," Kevin said.

"Yeah, it's time," Sam agreed.

"It's time when I bloody well say it's time!" Crowley snapped, then fell silent as more eerie sounds emitted. In a much calmer tone of voice, Crowley greeted, "Hello, Abaddon."

Nell wouldn't hear Abaddon's reply, but Crowley drawled, "And how are the numbers?"

There was a long pause, and when Crowley spoke again his voice was simmering with suppressed anger.

"You're taking souls before their time. Voiding my contracts!" Abaddon must have said something more infuriating, because Crowley spluttered for a moment before growling, "You ganky, putrescent skanger. It may look like bean-counting to you, it may lack a certain adolescent flair—" Crowley's voice dripped in disdain. "But my way  _works_. You think you can control Hell with chaos alone, without the support of those who are still loyal to me?!"

There was a long pause as Crowley listened to whatever Abaddon had to say. Finally, Crowley spoke quietly, his words more promise than threat. "Your way will backfire. You. Will. Burn."

There was a skittering sound as something scraped across the metal table. Crowley sighed.

"Crowley?" Sam asked, almost hesitant.

Resigned, Crowley spoke. "Bring me the translations.  _I_  keep my agreements." There was a shuffling of papers, and Crowley read them, voice dry. "Obtain the ingredients: heart, bow, Grace, blah, blah, blah.. Mix until the smoke shall rise from the ashes, casting the angels from heaven, blah, blah, oh." Crowley paused, sounding interested at last. "Hm. It's irreversible."

"What?" Sam asked, disbelieving.

"This spell can't be undone," Crowley said, seemingly happy to clarify the bad news. "The new world order—we're stuck with it."

Sam and Kevin looked defeated when they returned to the main room. Sam walked a few paces away to call Dean with an update while Kevin sank into a chair at the table.

"Your heard him, right?" Kevin asked, voice hollow. "How he said it's irreversible? Crowley can't be trusted, but I don't think he's lying about this."

"I heard him." Nell leaned back in her chair, thinking. "Getting them back to heaven isn't the real goal, though, right?" She asked, to clarify. "You just want them  _off_  Earth."

Kevin shrugged tiredly. "Where else would they go?"

Nell mirrored his shrug. "I don't know. But if the goal is to stop the angels off from creating chaos on Earth, maybe reversing the spell isn't the best way to go about it. Couldn't you send them somewhere else? Or, if not, then trap them in one place, where they couldn't hurt anybody?"

"That's…" Kevin looked pained.

"Actually not a bad idea," Sam completed, looking hopeful. He had finished his phone call, evidently. While Kevin muttered to himself about  _why didn't he think of that,_  Sam continued, "Even if the spell does turn out to be irreversible, if we can figure out some soft of a work-around…"

Sam turned to rifle through the books in the library with a renewed gleam in his eye. Kevin sighed and pushed away from the table. "Back to the tablet, then."

Nell watched the hunched set of Kevin's shoulders as he retreated down the hall with a frown. Sam returned from perusing the library with a thick stack of books, and without a word he slid a few toward Nell. She accepted them without complaint and got to reading.

Dean returned early the next morning. Sam had fallen asleep on one of the thick books on angel lore, and he snapped guiltily awake at the sound of the bunker door slamming. Dean plodded down the stairs, taking in Sam's tired gaze and Nell sitting stiffly at the table, books strewn about.

Dean looked at Nell, opened his mouth, and then seemed to remember that he was angry with her. He looked at his brother instead. "You look like hell, Sam."

"I'm fine," Sam lied immediately.

"He only got two hours of sleep," Nell tattled without shame, ignoring Sam's betrayed look and heaving herself up to put on a fresh pot of coffee.

"Alright, back to bed, Sammy," Dean ordered.

"Dean, I'm fine," Sam argued. "I've gone on less sleep than this before dozens of times, you've seen me. And this is important."

"Yeah, and those times you hadn't had your ass kicked by the trials," Dean groused. "You're still not fully recovered. Your precious books will still be here when you wake up. Now go get some sleep before you collapse."

Sam sighed, but obediently pushed away from the table. He paused at the entrance to the hallway, though. "Dean, you should know… to get Crowley to translate the Elamite, we had to let him make a phone call."

It took Dean a second to process what that meant. "You  _let_  him call Abaddon?"

"They're enemies, Dean. If we didn't know that before, the call kind of made that clear. But the thing is, Crowley demanded to use Kevin's blood for the call, and Kevin gave it. When I was cleaning up the syringes, I noticed one missing, and when I went to check… Dean, I saw Crowley  _shooting up_  Kevin's blood."

Nell froze at that, eyes wide as she stared at the quietly sputtering coffee pot.  _Shooting up blood?_ That was… well. The vampire in Nell thought that was an awful waste of perfectly good blood, and her teeth ached almost mournfully at the thought of it. The rational part of her, the part that Nell still thought of as  _human_ , couldn't comprehend it any better. What was the point? Sam had said it as if it was some sort of drug.

"Huh." Dean huffed thoughtfully. "Think the partial cure got him addicted, or something?"

"Maybe," Sam allowed. "He's certainly been different since then."

"Well, if he is a junkie for human blood, that gives us some more leverage on him, at least." Dean said carelessly. "Is that all?" Sam must have nodded, because Dean said, "Good. Go get some shut eye."

Dean walked into the kitchen when Sam had gone, looking hopeful. Her snitching on Sam had apparently mostly made up for her earlier transgressions. "You bake at all while I was gone?"

Nell laughed. "No. But if you can wait half an hour, you can have muffins."

Dean grinned, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "Have I told you lately that you're my favorite vampire?"

* * *

"Okay, close the books," Nell said a few weeks later, rising from what had become 'the research table' in the library. She strode into the kitchen and called over her shoulder, "Clear off the table."

"What? Why?" Kevin hovered protectively over his papers, making no move to clear them away. Sam and Dean hesitated, too.

"I mean, I  _could_ keep the birthday cake in here," Nell reappeared in the kitchen doorway, balancing a tray on one hand and a small stack of plates and forks in the other. "...but seeing as I can't eat it, I don't see much point."

"Birthday cake?" Kevin repeated, still looking a little lost. Sam obligingly started gathering up papers and books and moving them out of the way, and with a nudge from his brother Dean followed suit.

When the table was clear, Nell set down the cake. She had baked it in the middle of the night in order to maintain the element of surprise. While she hadn't had the chance to get candles, she had written in gold-colored icing,  _Happy Birthday Kevin_. Kevin stared at it blankly for a moment, then looked at Nell.

"That's today?"

"That's today," Nell confirmed. "And my gift to you is that you  _don't_  have to suffer through the Happy Birthday song. Now, how big of a slice do you want?"

The three boys ate lemon cake while Nell watched them and tried not to look too wistful. Dean remarked about how he wished he'd known it was Kevin's birthday earlier, or he would have done something. Then Sam, looking haunted, recounted to Kevin and Nell some of the ways Dean had 'celebrated' Sam's birthdays as a kid.

"You're not supposed to punch people on their birthday," Nell said, narrowing her eyes at Dean disapprovingly.

"Of course you are," Dean said around a mouthful of cake. "It builds character!"

When they finished with the cake, Dean took the leftovers into the kitchen and returned with three beers. He handed one to Sam, and another to Kevin. Kevin reached for it, then hesitated with his fingers a few inches away from the bottle.

"I'm not 21."

"Dude." Dean pressed the bottle into Kevin's hand. "You're a prophet of the lord, she's a vampire, and we hunt monsters. Normal rules don't apply."

"...Fair enough." Kevin took a sip, and only grimaced a little at the taste.

"I had my first beer when I was thirteen," Dean informed him. "And our Dad 'gave me my first beer' when I was fifteen."

"That explains a lot," Kevin said, straight-faced. Dean kicked him under the table. Sam laughed.

It was nice, to be together like this. To take a break from the tablet and angels and demons, and just be four people sharing beer and stories. Or, three people and a vampire. Nell tried not to think about the difference, and how desperately she would have liked to have a beer herself. Even if she could drink it, or even get a buzz from it—and she seriously doubted that she could—it was no longer safe for her to lose her inhibitions like that.

Nell contented herself with watching Dean ply Kevin with more and more beer, and seeing Kevin become more and more inebriated. It was his first time getting drunk, and it showed. And it was highly entertaining, too, because the more Kevin drank, the less he held back the snarky insults directed at the Winchesters.

Sam drank more slowly, also apparently enjoying the show, but his eyes began to droop one hour and two beers in. Dean shooed him off to bed, and Sam drowsily complied without protest. Kevin stood up soon after—Nell wasn't sure whether he meant to go to bed, or to fetch another beer—and wobbled dangerously.

"Okay, that's enough," Dean said, standing up. He moved to support Kevin with an arm over his shoulder, but Kevin swatted him away.

"'m  _fine_ ," Kevin said irritably. "Lemme go to bed." Reluctantly, Dean let him go. Kevin teetered down the hallway like he was on a heavily rocking boat, but managed to make it back to his bedroom without falling.

Dean glanced at Nell uncertainly. "You think I gave him too much?"

"A bit," Nell said. "But he'll be fine. I'll bring him some water."

"Probably a good idea," Dean agreed. "And hey—" Dean hesitated. Cleared his throat. Glanced away. "Thank you, for doing this. What you said, before—" He cut himself off again. "I'm glad you're looking out for him, that's all."

Nell figured that was about as close to an apology about their behavior toward Kevin as Dean would ever get, so she said, "Apology accepted."

Dean's eyebrows rose, then dropped into a scowl. His mouth opened, then closed. Then he sighed, shook his head, and turned to walk down the hallway with a quiet, "Good night."

Nell fetched two water bottles from the fridge. They were usually used whenever Sam and Dean went on the road, but Nell figured they'd be safer to leave by Kevin's bed if he drunkenly knocked one over sometime during the night.

She knocked lightly on Kevin's door, and entered when he grumbled irritably. He was already under the covers, but opened his eyes to look sleepily at her. Nell handed him one of the water bottles.

"If you don't want to feel like shit in the morning, I suggest you drink all of that."

Kevin cracked the seal on the bottle obediently and gulped it down quickly. He finished it in less than a minute and then sighed, "Thanks."

He set the bottle aside and mumbled something as he settled back into bed, eyes half closing. Nell couldn't make out what he'd said except for the word  _Mom_.

"Excuse me?" Nell asked, feeling a little offended for some reason.

Kevin let out a jaw-cracking yawn. "You're like… the mom friend," he said, more clearly this time. "Y'know. The one who always has snacks and sunblock and makes sure people don't drown in their own vomit." Kevin looked to see if Nell understood, and she nodded. Kevin sighed. "I miss my mom."

Nell didn't know what to say to that, so she said nothing.

"Crowley says she's alive, but Crowley lies…" Kevin trailed off, staring up at the ceiling. "And Dean says that even if she is alive, she's as good as dead, which is probably true, but it kills me not knowing…"

Something in Nell's chest twisted painfully. "We'll find out," she said quietly. "Whatever the truth is, I'll help you find out."

Kevin blinked doubtfully at her. "Promise?"

"Yeah. I promise."


	8. Chapter 8

"Hey. You seen Sam?" Dean looked tense as he entered the kitchen the next day. Nell put down the knife she'd been using to slice an apple.

"He went out…" Nell checked her watch. "An hour ago."

Dean's frown deepened. "Did he say where?"

"No. But I didn't ask, either." Nell eyed him warily. He didn't seem confused or curious as to the whereabouts of his brother, so much as  _worried_. Dean's phone rang before she could call him out on it and Dean walked out of the kitchen, seemingly forgetting that Nell could hear his conversation no matter where he went in the bunker.

"Dean, I don't have a lot of time, so listen," the caller said urgently. "The leader of the opposition is an angel named Malachi."

Dean's voice was protective when he demanded, "How do you know that?"

"He had me." The man on the other end paused awkwardly. "I, uh. I was tortured. But I got away."

"How?" Dean sounded worried.

"I…" The man hesitated, then continued, resigned and disgusted, "I did what I had to. I became what they've become… A barbarian."

"What are you—Cas, where are you?" Ah. So this was the mysterious Castiel Nell had only read and heard about so far.

"It's better I stay away," Castiel said, though he didn't sound happy about it. "They're gonna want me even more now. But I'm gonna be alright. I... I got my Grace back. Well, not  _mine_  per se, but it'll do."

"Wait, you're—you're back?" Dean sounded hopeful. "You got your mojo?"

"I'm not sure," Cas said. "But I am an angel."

"And you're okay with that?" There was something tight in Dean's voice. It took Castiel a moment to answer.

"If we're going to war, I need to be ready." Which meant that he wasn't okay with it. Not really.

"Cas," Dean began, but Castiel interrupted him sharply.

"Dean. There's more."

"What?"

"Didn't you say Sam was healed by an angel named Ezekiel?" Dean's heartbeat picked up immediately. Nell's brow furrowed. This was the first she'd heard of such a thing, and Dean's reaction was troubling.

"Uh... Yeah, why?"

"Ezekiel is dead."

"What?" Dean's voice was weak.

"He died when the angels fell," Cas said seriously. "Whoever it was that healed Sam, it wasn't Ezekiel."

The call ended. Nell leaned on the door to the kitchen and coughed to catch Dean's attention. He jumped and whirled around to look at her, almost panicked.

"What's going on?" Nell asked, voice level.

"What?" Dean quickly tried to school his expression. "Nothing."

"I heard the entire conversation, Dean, and I also know Sam thinks you've been acting oddly, keeping secrets. So you can either tell me what's going on now, or when Sam gets back I can ask  _him_  about Ezekiel."

"No!" Dean shouted, eyes bright, then slumped, running a hand over his face. "Nell, whatever you do, you  _can't_  tell him."

"Well then, you'd better tell me,  _and_  give me a very good reason why I should keep my mouth shut."

Haltingly, Dean explained about the toll the trials to close the gates of Hell took on Sam. How he'd almost died, and Dean had desperately sent out an all-angel broadcast, looking for any angel that was listening to heal his brother. About the angel, who'd introduced himself as Ezekiel, who had promised he could heal Sam—but only from inside. And how Dean, desperate to save his brother, had tricked Sam into saying 'yes'.

"And now you know that the angel currently riding backseat in Sam's mind is  _not_  Ezekiel, but… some mystery angel, who lied about his identity," Nell said, connecting Dean's story to what she'd heard on the phone call.

"Yeah." Dean slumped in his chair. "I thought it was suspicious, but Sam was gonna  _die._  And then Not-Zeke said that Cas couldn't stay in the bunker because it was too dangerous—he must've known Cas would catch him in his lie.  _Damn it._ "

Dean slammed a fist down on the counter. "I trusted him! I mean, he saved Sam's life, more than once. He brought Charlie back when she was killed by the Wicked Witch. He said doing stuff like that was why it was taking so long to heal Sam, said he couldn't leave, but what if that's a lie, too?"

Dean turned to Nell sharply, eyes shining with desperation. "You said he smelled sick, before. Is he still—"

Nell shook her head slowly. "I'm sorry, but no. It's the same as always." Dean's panic was catching. What did this angel want from them, from Sam? Was it dangerous? What would it do, when it realized they'd found out about its deception?

"What am I gonna do?" Dean repeated the question to himself a few more times, before straightening, resolved. "Kevin." He stalked down the hall, and Nell followed behind, wondering what Dean was thinking.

Kevin had fallen into a doze at his desk, head pillowed on a tall stack of disordered papers. Nell felt a little bad for waking him, but only a little. This was an emergency.

"Kevin," Dean shook Kevin's shoulder lightly, and Kevin shot up, blinking in disorientation. "Wake up, buddy. I need a spell, ASAP."

Kevin scrubbed at his eyes. "Everyone always needs a spell, and it's always ASAP."

"Look, I need a way to speak with an angel's vessel, without letting the angel know," Dean said urgently. "Is that possible?"

"What?" Kevin still had a haze of sleep in his eyes. "Why?"

Dean opened his mouth, glanced at Nell, and hesitated. Nell huffed a frustrated breath. She didn't understand Dean's intense desire to conceal the truth, and she certainly wasn't about to indulge it.

"The trials almost killed Sam, so Dean tricked Sam into saying yes to an angel so he could heal him from the inside. So now Sam is possessed by an angel and he doesn't know it, but the angel lied about who he is and now we need to get Sam to expel the angel without alerting the angel to what we're doing." Nell spoke rapidly, annoyed, and Kevin stared blankly at her. Nell wondered if he was even awake enough to process all the information she'd just spewed at him.

"You're joking." Kevin looked away from Nell and stared at Dean's dismal face. "You're not joking. Dean, what the hell?!"

"I made a mistake, okay? I know. I get it. But Sam was dying, and I was desperate. And now, some mystery angel is inside my brother, so I need you to put your nose to that tablet and figure out a way to talk to Sam."

Kevin ran a hand over his face and sighed heavily, but nodded. "Okay. I'll try." He sank back into his chair and stared desperately at the tablet, shoulders hunched.

"I'll make some coffee," Nell said, wanting to feel useful. "And fetch the angel lore books. Maybe something in there could help."

Kevin gave an affirmative sort of grunt. Dean followed Nell and hovered at the door to the kitchen, casting a wary glance towards the bunker door and then towards the main library room, where the stacks of angel books were still spread out across a large table. "You think anything in here will be useful? We went through all those books."

"Yeah,  _we_  did." Nell jabbed the 'start' button on the coffee maker. "Including Sam.  _I_ didn't see anything like what we're looking for, and neither did you, or Kevin. So if the Men of Letters had a way to talk to an angel's vessel directly, I'll bet it's in one of the books Sam read through."

Dean looked at Nell like she was the rising sun. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right."

Dean helped her gather the books Sam had looked through while the coffee brewed, and carried the heaping stack back down the hall towards Kevin's room while Nell carried a large mug of coffee for Kevin. She set it at his elbow and cleared a space on the bed, which was strewn with papers, so she could sit. For lack of any space that wasn't already covered in books or scribblings, Dean gently set the stack of books down on the floor.

Nell stopped Dean before he could grab a book from the stack. He furrowed his brow at her. "What?"

"It will look suspicious if Sam comes back and we're all holed up in here."

"What, so I can't help?" Dean looked rebellious.

"Of course you can help," Nell said patiently. "By distracting Sam."

"I'll just pretend I was doing something else when he comes back."

Nell was beginning to lose her patience. "Despite what you think, Sam isn't stupid. He  _will_ notice the missing books, and he'll notice you're lying—unless you distract him. So I need you to do what only you can do, Dean:  _annoy the hell_  out of your brother."

Dean eyed Nell skeptically for a long moment, jaw tight, then nodded.

And annoy Sam, Dean did. As soon as Sam came back, Dean sent him out to get dinner. Still half in the doorway, Sam had questioned why Nell wasn't cooking. Dean had evaded the question sheepishly, and Sam had huffily demanded to know what Dean had done. Dean had defensively said he'd done nothing, and Sam had muttered skeptically as he walked back out. Dean shouted after him to remember to bring pie.

Dean knew every button to push, every bad habit to play up. By the time Nell and Kevin had found the sigil they needed, Sam had retreated to his own bedroom to avoid him.

"Tell me you got something," Dean said quietly, slipping into Kevin's bedroom the next evening.

"We got it," Kevin said confidently. He handed Dean the sigil they'd found. "You can draw it in paint, but it has to be activated with blood."

"And this'll work?" Dean's eyes shone with hope.

"It should. But," Kevin grimaced a little, "there's no way to tell how long it'll last."

Dean stared. "What, so I could have five minutes or five  _seconds_?"

"Basically, yeah," Kevin agreed.

Before Dean could protest how dangerous this was if they didn't know how long the effects of the sigil would last, Nell asked, "You have some holy oil here, right?"

Dean straightened, eyebrows raising. "Yeah, we do. What, get him in an enclosed space, light the fire, and activate the sigil?"

Nell nodded. "That way if the sigil runs out or fails, we've still got him trapped."

"How soon can we do this?" Dean was tense with nervous energy. Now that he had a solution to the angel problem, he wanted to act, now.

"We can paint the sigil the next time Sam goes out," Kevin said. Dean's lips tugged downward for just a moment, impatient, but then he nodded, resolved.

"Right. Time for us to run out of beer."

* * *

"Welcome back," Nell greeted Sam, turning from the soup she was stirring to shoot him a smile. Sam looked surprised to see her out of hiding and cooking again, and he offered her a weak, if confused smile.

"I, uh, brought you some more blood." Sam hefted a paper bag in one arm. In his other hand, several plastic bags bulged with packs of beer which clanked gently at the motion. "Can I ask—what did Dean do?"

"You can ask." Sam waited expectantly for a moment, then huffed when it became clear Nell wasn't going to answer. Nell smiled at him innocently, and Sam rolled his eyes.

"Fine. I probably don't want to know anyway."

"Smart man." Nell turned the gas on the stove down to a simmer, then eyed Sam speculatively as he began putting beer in the fridge. "When you're finished there, could you help me in the store room for a second?"

Sam furrowed his brow at her. "What do you need in the store room?"

"I found a record about a scroll on the origin of vampires, but it looks like it's rolled to the back of the top shelf, and the Men of Letters don't seem to believe in step stools."

Sam finished stocking the beer and shot her a disbelieving look. "You want me to reach something on a high shelf?"

"Like this is the first time a girl's asked you to do that." Nell folded her arms. "I thought about jumping for it, but I didn't want to accidentally release any wicked witches." This had been one of the various stories Nell had heard from Sam and Dean after a few beers made them more talkative.

Sam winced a little. "Okay, that's fair."

He led the way to the storeroom, asking questions about the scroll Nell supposedly wanted to look at. Nell fingered the lighter in her skirt pocket like a worry stone.

Time seemed to slow as Sam entered the store room. He walked to the center of the room and paused, brow furrowed as he turned. "You know, you could have just got a chair—"

Dean slammed the door shut as soon as Nell was through the doorway. Nell drew the lighter out of her pocket, lit it, and dropped it into the ring of holy oil while Dean cut his palm and slapped his hand to activate the sigil.

"What the hell?" Sam reared away from the flames that flared up around him, eyes wide. "Nell, Dean— _holy fire_? What are you  _doing_?"

"I got to tell you some stuff fast," Dean rushed out. "It's gonna piss you off."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "I'm already pissed off, but okay."

Dean swallowed loudly. "Those trials really messed you up."

Sam looked impatient. "Yes, I know that, Dea—"

"No, you don't," Dean interrupted. "I mean messed you up, like almost dead. No more birthdays, dust to dust. Well, that messed  _me_ up, so I made a move, okay? A tough move, about you, without talking it over, because you were in a coma."

"Wait, what?" Sam's eyebrows shot up towards his hair at this, anger dissipating a little in the face of his confusion. "When?"

"You were in the hospital, okay? And they said you were gonna die."

Sam stared at Dean, suspicion and betrayal beginning to color his face. "What did you do?"

Dean's mouth worked silently for a moment. Finally he admitted, "I let an angel in."

"In what?" Sam asked, not catching on.

"In  _you_. He said he could heal you."

"I had an angel in me?" Sam asked, disbelieving. At Dean's dismal look, Sam looked at the sigil, and the ring of holy fire. "I  _have_  an angel in me? No, that's impossible. I never invited him in."

"I tricked you into saying yes," Dean said lowly. "It seemed like the only way."

Sam stared at his brother, then sighed heavily, looking away. "So… again. You thought I couldn't handle something, so you took over!"

"No, I did what I had to do!" Dean's voice was rising. "You would've never agreed to it, and you would've died."

"Well, maybe I would've liked the choice, at least," Sam spat bitterly.

Dean made an impatient gesture with his hand. "We can do this later. You can—you can kick my ass all you want. Right now, we got bigger problems."

"Bigger?" Sam's tone seemed to convey that he couldn't conceive of a bigger problem than what Dean had just outlined.

"The angel lied to me. Okay? He's not who he said he was." Sam went rigid at this. "He said his name was Ezekiel. Cool guy, according to Cas—but it's not Ezekiel."

For the first time Sam looked a little fearful, rather than angry. "Who is he?"

"I don't know," Dean said, voice rough. "Apparently, Ezekiel is dead. Whoever this guy is can end you in a heartbeat if he wants to, so you have got to dump him. You hear me? I think you're well enough now, but you got to expel him, now."

Sam heaved a shuddering breath, but nodded. "Okay." He hesitated. "Let me out of the holy fire? This'll probably knock me out, so…"

A horrible suspicion tightened Nell's breath. Dean set his jaw. "You have to expel the angel first, Sam. Cast him out."

It was like watching an actor step off set. Sam seemed to stand a little straighter, the emotion draining out of his eyes. His lips drew into a thin line, unamused and solemn. When he spoke, his voice was distant, almost hollow.

"That is not going to happen."

"You're not Sam," Dean realized aloud, looking gutted.

"No," the angel admitted. "But I played him convincingly, I thought."

He had. If he hadn't been trapped by the holy fire, Nell would have been fooled. She thought Dean would have, too, and he was Sam's brother.

"The sigil—"

"Would have been effective," the angel admitted. "Had I not overheard your plotting and altered its form when I entered." He nodded towards the sigil. Dean and Nell looked, and there, at the bottom, was a smudge, interrupting the clean lines Kevin had so carefully painted.

"Now. Let me out of this holy fire."

"No way," Dean growled. "Get out of my brother, you son of a bitch."

The angel stared at Dean, irritated and almost mournful. "No." He waved a hand.

For Nell, it was like a hard shove to the back of her knees. She fell, hard, directly into the ring of fire.

And oh, it burned. It was the worst pain she'd ever felt. She'd been burned before—spilled coffee, drops of hot oil, wayward sparklers on the fourth of July—but it was nothing like this. She writhed and screamed, but she couldn't roll away, because the angel was stepping on her back, using her body as a bridge to make his way out of the ring of fire. She could smell her flesh burning.

Dean cursed and tried to tackle the angel back, but the angel caught him hard in the face and sent him careening into the wall. Dean's head hit the concrete hard, and he slid to the floor, eyes closed, unmoving. The angel stalked out of the storeroom as Nell rolled desperately on the floor to put out the flames.

Still smoking and in horrible pain, but no longer on fire, Nell crawled to check on Dean. His pulse was still steady, thankfully, and he jolted up with a groan when Nell shook his shoulder desperately.

"Nell." Dean looked tortured when he looked at her. She was sure she was a sight to look at, but that didn't matter right now.

"We can't let him leave," Nell rasped urgently.

Dean nodded quickly. He scrambled up and ran down the hall, stumbling a little. It took Nell a moment to clamber to her feet and stagger after him, blistered skin pulling and burning with every step.

But then Kevin screamed, and Nell forgot her pain.

She didn't remember traveling down the hallway. One moment she was barely out of the storeroom, and the next she stood in the doorway, paralyzed. The angel had pressed Sam's hand to Kevin's forehead, and white light was flooding out of Kevin's eyes. The sheer brightness of it blinded Nell for a moment, but she could smell sizzling flesh, and hear Dean's screams. The light faded and Nell's vision returned in time to watch Kevin's body thud to the floor, limp. His eyes were burned away, raw, angry flesh in the place where they used to be. The smell made Nell sick.

The sight of Kevin's motionless body hurt far worse than the holy oil. The angel might have just as easily held Nell down and chopped off one of her arms, because suddenly a piece of her was  _missing._ It was  _dead_ , and it  _hurt_.

Dean and the angel were talking, but Nell couldn't hear the words. For once the world was silent, quiet as Kevin's unbeating heart.

At some point she made her way to Kevin's body, though she couldn't remember moving. She clutched his still-warm hand and wished she could ignore the silence, the smell. The signs that he was dead, not sleeping. She ran her fingers over his calluses, formed from hours of clutching a pen, from years of playing the cello. He'd never write again. Never play music again. Never be normal, never be president.

Kevin hadn't wanted any of this. He didn't deserve it. He had been strong, and he'd made the best of what was dealt to him. He lost everyone he loved, and  _still_ , he tried to help. And his reward was to be killed by someone he trusted.

Nell didn't know how long she sat with Kevin's body. It was still warm when Dean gently, carefully laid a hand on her shoulder.

At the touch, the sound in Nell's world seemed to come back on. She blinked at Dean, disoriented and confused. Her breath was labored, and Nell thought she might have been sobbing tearlessly before he'd interrupted her.

"You're hurt," Dean reminded her softly.

Was she? Nell glanced down at her blackened, burned clothes and the red, blistered skin beneath. She was. The pain of her grief had pushed her physical pain to the back of her mind. Now, Nell seized the physical sensation, the burning pain of her tortured skin, to push back the weight of grief.

"Come on, let's… let's get you cleaned up." Dean hesitated, trying to figure out a way to help her up without irritating her burns. She had fallen on her front, and while she'd managed to mostly shield her face, her arms and torso had received the brunt of the flames. After some consideration, Dean wrapped an arm around the back of her shoulders, heaving her up with him as he stood.

Dean took her to a bathroom and sat her down on the edge of the bathtub, retrieving a first aid kit from under a sink. Dean drew out scissors first and shot her an apologetic, uncomfortable look. Nell frowned uncomprehendingly at him.

"Clothes have gotta come off."

That made sense, Nell supposed. She looked at her clothes, then the blistered skin on her hands, and grimaced. After a moment of consideration, she stood. Dean raised an eyebrow, and Nell lifted her arms away from her body.

"Shirt's tucked into my skirt. You'll need to take that off first to minimize tugging." Dean seemed reassured by Nell's business-like demeanor, and he nodded. "The zip's on the side."

Dean's hands found the zipper quickly, and he slipped the skirt down her legs easily. His eyebrows rose a little when he found a still-pristine white skirt slip underneath instead of bare legs. Nell stepped out of the skirt and sat back down, and Dean frowned thoughtfully at the fabric as he set it aside.

"Still in pretty good shape," he muttered as he picked up the scissors again. The skirts fabric was singed and blackened, but the flames hadn't penetrated the fabric.

Nell sighed mournfully as Dean gently started cutting her shirt away. "Wool. Naturally flame retardant." She hissed as Dean pulled the remains of her shirt from where they had stuck to her burns, leaving her in only her bra and skirt slip. "It was vintage. One of my favorites."

"And this was, what, cotton?" Dean set aside the scraps of her shirt. "You're lucky. If you'd been wearing polyester we'd both be in for a bad time." His tone suggested that he had learned this from experience.

"Lucky's not the word I'd use."

Dean's face fell, and he swallowed. His eyes swept over the angry red flesh of Nell's torso and arms, and then the medical supplies in the first aid kit. Mouth thinning, he shut the kit.

Nell frowned. "What are you doing?"

"There's only one thing I have that'll help you heal, and it ain't in the first aid kit." Dean held out his wrist, eyes resolute and serious. Nell opened her mouth, but Dean interrupted her. "And don't argue. You drank my blood before. You need it, and I trust you. And I'm gonna need you to be better, to help with… with Kevin."

She didn't want to. No matter how much better human blood tasted compared was to animal, this was  _Dean_. And it was different, like this. She'd never  _bitten_  anyone, she'd never  _used_  her horrible teeth to tear through flesh.

But Dean's eyes were brittle and brooked no argument.

"Would you look away?" Nell asked finally, voice tight. Dean furrowed his brow at her, and she explained, haltingly, "I… hate my teeth."

Understanding dawned on Dean's face. His jaw worked for a moment, like he was pondering some placating words, some reassurance, but instead of speaking he just nodded. He pushed himself up and sat beside her on the tub, wrapping his left arm gently around her shoulder in a way that gave her easy access to his wrist.

Nell glanced at him for confirmation, and Dean nodded, resolute, before fixing his eyes on the remains of her clothes on the bathroom floor. Nell shuddered out a breath and turned to the left. When she inhaled, she allowed herself to focus on the smell of Dean's blood, the pulsing in his veins. Her teeth descended, and Dean's heart rate picked up, just a little, but his arm was steady and motionless around her shoulder.

As gently as she could manage, Nell sank her teeth into Dean's wrist.

Dean tensed, and his heart beat faster still, but didn't pull away. The blood was like cool water after running a marathon. Satisfying, and soothing, and so easy sliding down her throat. It soothed the burning hunger, the anger, that hovered in the back of her mind in a way that the animal blood she choked down never did. It would be easy,  _so_  easy, for Nell to latch on, dig her teeth in deeper, and drink her fill. Drink until the hunger disappeared completely.

But Nell focused instead on the weight of Dean's arm on her shoulders, his steady, controlled breathing, and the sight of her own slowly-healing skin. When flesh on her hands had faded to a rosy pink instead of an angry red, Nell pulled away and covered her mouth with her hand while she licked the last drops of Dean's blood from her teeth.

Dean pulled his arm back and re-opened the first aid kit, wordlessly sterilizing the bite mark and covering it with a bandage. He glanced at her when she removed her hand from her face. "You okay?"

The burns on her torso and arms weren't fully healed, but they were much improved. "Yeah. You?"

Nell didn't know exactly how much she drank from him, but Dean didn't look pale, which she assumed was a good sign. He looked away, shutting the first aid kit with a harsh snap.

"No." Dean's eyes were dark. "Kevin's dead. Sam's gone. So, no. I'm not okay."

* * *

Wood popped. Huge tongues of flame licked up toward the night sky, blocking Kevin's body from view on top of the pyre. A light wind tossed sparks from the flames upward towards the stars. She imagined, fancifully, that Kevin's soul was likewise drifting up, up toward Heaven.

Dean had given clipped instructions on what sort of wood to gather, and how to construct the pyre. This wasn't his first hunter funeral, and Nell doubted it would be the last. Now he stood, silent and grim, eyes shining as the dancing flames cast odd shadows across his face.

Nell stood next to him, still-raw skin twinging at the heat from the fire. Out of respect for Dean she'd held back the question that had been burning in her mind, for hours, but finally she couldn't keep it back any longer.

"Why?" Dean's eyes landed on her, distant, like he wasn't completely present. "You said the angel healed Sam. Revived your friend. Even if we caught him in a lie... why would he kill Kevin?"

Dean shook his head, turning back to the flames. "I don't know."

But it bothered Nell, deeply. "If the angel wanted to leave, take the tablets, he could've just knocked him out. Like you, like me. He left  _us_  alive. So why kill Kevin?"

"I don't know," Dean repeated, voice sharp.

"There's got to be a reason..." Nell stared into the fire, as if hoping the answer would appear there. It didn't. She couldn't even make out the outline of Kevin's body anymore.

"I'll be sure to ask him when I track the son of a bitch down."

Nell turned to look at Dean. The murderous expression on his face was strange in the dancing orange light of the fire. "How are you going to do that?"

Dean swallowed, staring into the flames. At last he said again, "I don't know."


	9. Chapter 9

Nell didn't know what to do with herself. Dean was all anger and vengeance, pacing and yelling and breaking things. Nell felt distant, like a boat drifted away from the dock. She didn't remember much from the hours and days after they burned Kevin's body, drifting around the bunker aimlessly, as if on autopilot.

At some point she found herself in Kevin's room, and she blinked, confused, wondering when she'd walked here. The door was open behind her, and she clutched a plate in her hands. A sandwich and a sliced apple.

A lunch for Kevin that he'd never eat. Because he wasn't squirreled away in his room translating a tablet. Because he was dead.

The plate clattered to the ground, and Nell followed. She buried her head in her knees and wished desperately that she was able to cry. Instead she rocked on the floor and shuddered and sighed, and the emotional release wasn't the same, but it was close, and it was all she could do.

She stayed for hours, lingering in the room that still smelled like Kevin, surrounded by everything he'd worked so hard on for months. She only broke from her trance when she heard the clatter of the dungeon door down the hall, and she stepped into the hall just outside to listen.

"Hello, boys," Crowley said, as good-naturedly as was possible for a demon.

Nell frowned at the plural. There was another heartbeat with Dean and Crowley, Nell realized now, but it wasn't Sam. She would have known if he'd come back. There was something oddly familiar about the scent lingering in the hall where the stranger must have walked, even though she was sure she'd never met him before.

"Here's the deal," Dean said gruffly. "You're gonna tell us how to hack an angel, and I'm gonna give you some of the good stuff. Human blood, fresh from the tap. Word is you're jonesing for it."

"Please." Crowley sounded smug. "I'll pass."

"What do you want, then?" Nell recognized Castiel's voice from the phone. That explained the other heartbeat, at least. He must have arrived while Nell was… distracted.

"Well, for starters... a massage." There was a rattle of chains, like Crowley had rolled his shoulders. "Between the sitting and the shackles, a body gets a little stiff."

"Yeah, I ain't rubbing you," Dean denied immediately.

"God, no. Get Kevin." Dean's breath stuttered. Nell squeezed her eyes shut. Crowley didn't know. He continued, "His tiny fists can really work wonder—"

"Kevin is dead," Castiel interrupted harshly.

"Oh." Crowley paused. "I'm sorry to hear that." And oddly enough, he did sound it.

"Don't pretend you care," Castiel bit out. "You tried to kill him."

Crowley ignored him, sounding simultaneously knowing and regretful. "I told him this was gonna happen. I was the only person who tried to warn him. I told him to run."

"From what?" Dean asked, skeptical.

"You." Crowley said it simply, like it was obvious. "How many times am I gonna have to say this? People in your general vicinity don't have much in the way of a life-span." He paused a moment to let that dig sink in. "Now, I can't  _teach_ you how to crack open an angel. It's more... art than science. But I can do it for you. All I ask in return is a little field trip.  _Dying_  for some fresh air. Chains on, naturally."

"No," Dean said immediately.

"No?" Crowley's voice was light. "Of course not. Because if I'm plan 'A,' I'm sure you have a totally viable, much better plan 'B.'"

There were muffled footsteps. "You can't be considering this," Castiel said in a low voice, presumably so Crowley couldn't hear.

"With the chains on, he can't do anything," Dean reasoned.

"It's Crowley," Castiel said flatly. "He can always do something."

"Looks like we need a tiebreaker." Crowley said easily, clearly having heard the entire exchange. "Go get Moose, squirrel." Crowley paused, and when he spoke again he sounded positively triumphant. " _Unless_... Unless, of course, you can't. That's why you're here, isn't it? The poor giant baby's in trouble again, isn't he?"

"Are you done?" Dean asked impatiently.

"Depends. Do we have a deal?"

"Yeah." Dean was resigned.

"Excellent. When do we leave?"

"Right now." There was a rustle and clatter of chains.

Nell waited in the hall for the three to emerge, breathing through her mouth. Before, she would not have trusted herself to come so close to Crowley—but Dean's blood had sated her more than the pig's blood ever had, and that combined with her desperate craving for vengeance put her lust for the demon's blood in the backseat.

Dean and Castiel walked out of the storeroom which hid the dungeon, Crowley walking between them, still cuffed. Dean looked unsurprised to see her, but Crowley's eyebrows rose and Castiel—a dark-haired man in a trench coat with solemn but very blue eyes—furrowed his brow.

"Dean," Castiel said gravely, not taking his eyes off her. "There's a vampire in your bunker."

Nell raised an eyebrow at Dean, and he sighed deeply. "Cas, this is Nell. She's a 'vegetarian', like Lenore. Long story. Nell, this is Castiel." Dean paused, then said, voice a little tight, "He's a good angel."

"Sure." Nell eyed the angel warily, deciding to reserve judgment. She'd read about Castiel in the Carver Edlund books, and he'd done good things, but he'd also done less-good things. She didn't forget, either, that Castiel had been the one to actually  _kill_  the aforementioned vegetarian vampire.

She turned her gaze toward Dean and said firmly, "I'm going with you."

"No," Dean said immediately. "No way."

Nell's lips curled back, and it took a good deal of effort to restrain her teeth and the primal snarl that built in the back of her throat. "Why not?"

"Because you've never been on a hunt before," Dean said, then listed more reasons. "Because angels are dangerous. Because you're still not healed."

Nell ignored the intent look Crowley fixed her with at those words and responded with the only counterargument she had, the only thing that was really important.

" _He killed Kevin._ "

"You think I don't know that?!" Dean asked, voice rising. He made a visible effort to calm himself and said in a low voice, "Look, I know you're angry. I'm angry too, and I want that son of a bitch to pay more than anything—and I know you're hard to kill, Nell, but not for an angel. This is out of your league."

Nell's jaw worked silently. She stood rigidly in the hallway and glared at Dean, trying to come up with a counterargument that would convince him. Dean was stubborn, but Nell could be, too, and she was certain that with enough nagging he would eventually allow her to come along. He was too sympathetic to her anger, to her desire for revenge, to hold out against her indefinitely.

"All good points," Crowley agreed softly. Dean looked at him warily. The fact that the demon had just agreed with him seemed to make him reconsider his position. "Not to mention that judging from the…  _delicious_  bloodlust roiling off you, there's every chance you'd tear through the Winchester to get to the angel inside."

It was like being punched in the gut. Nell had been so focused on killing the angel who'd killed Kevin that she had completely overlooked that she couldn't hurt him without also hurting Sam. Her shoulders sagged in defeat, and she swayed a little, feeling almost faint.

"Nell?" Dean asked, concerned. Nell put one hand on the wall of the hallway to support herself and shook her head.

"He's right." She looked determinedly at Dean so she didn't have to see what sort of expression Crowley would make at hearing her admit it. "I don't trust myself not to attack him… I would only hurt Sam." Nell shook her head again, trying to clear her thoughts. She remembered then that Sam—or rather, the angel in Sam—had taken off with the Impala. "Do you need to borrow my car?"

Dean opened his mouth to reply, but Castiel interjected, "I have a vehicle. Though it stopped a few miles from here, inexplicably."

Dean raised an eyebrow at Castiel, then narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Did you put gas in it?"

Castiel gave him a blank, confused look. Dean sighed wearily. Nell huffed a quiet laugh.

"How about a ride to your car, then?"

"It's daytime," Castiel said frankly. He looked her up and down, eyes lingering on her exposed skin, a line forming between his brows. "And you are already burned. But not from the sun."

Nell glanced down. To minimize friction on her wounds Nell wore only a thin camisole, so her half-healed burns were on full display.

"No," she agreed. "Fun with holy oil."

"That does not sound like fun at all," Castiel said, still puzzled. Nell shot Dean a disbelieving look, and he winced. Crowley rolled his eyes exaggeratedly.

"I think we'll just walk," Dean decided.

"Probably for the best," Nell agreed.

* * *

Nell stared at the mess of papers scattered around the room. Half-finished translations, a few dirty plates, and a blank space on the desk where a tablet had once sat. The angel had taken off with that, too.

_Why._

The question had been stuck in her head like a song playing on repeat, hovering at the back of her mind and resurfacing whenever her thoughts went quiet.

_Why, why, why?_

It didn't make any sense. Kevin had come up with the sigil, but Nell and Dean had executed the trap. If the angel were going to kill anyone, surely it should have been her, or Dean? He had the opportunity. When Nell was burning in the holy fire and Dean was knocked out, it would have been easy to kill them. Smart, even, because there was no way Dean would ever give up on getting Sam back while he was still alive.

But he didn't kill Dean, or Nell. Just Kevin.

Why? What made Kevin different? He wasn't dangerous to the angel in the way Dean was.

No, the thing which distinguished Kevin from Nell and Dean was the fact that he was a prophet of the lord. He was the only one who could read the tablet the angel had stolen, and the longer she dwelled on it, the more sure Nell was that  _that_  was why Kevin had been killed.

Which meant that, given enough time with the angel tablet, Kevin might have  _found_  something. Something that only he could find. Something the angel didn't want him to discover.

What that was, precisely, Nell didn't know. A way to reverse Metatron's spell, perhaps, or something else. But whatever it was, whatever the angel had been trying to hide by killing Kevin, Nell was determined to discover it.

And so Nell entered Kevin's room and started gathering the various notes and papers and books, piling them together and bringing them to the library. It took several trips, but eventually she cleared out Kevin's room and spread the mess out on one of the library's long tables. It would take her weeks to make even a little bit of sense of the mad scribblings, she was sure.

Not so long ago, Nell had been worried about a lack of purpose in her life. Immortality stretched before her, and she didn't know what to do with herself. Now, that was no longer a problem.

She would live for revenge. And she would see that the angel who had killed Kevin suffered before he died.

Without any other humans in the bunker to mark mealtimes or day and night, Nell fell into an almost trance-like state poring over Kevin's work. It was a relief, really, to focus her whole attention on dead languages and obscure symbols. While she worked, there was no grief. There was no anger. There was only shuffling paper, and peering at symbols, and flipping pages.

She didn't really register the sound of a car's engine approaching and cutting out until the door to the bunker swept open. Nell turned her head towards the stairs and blinked to clear the blurred symbols from her vision.

Sam entered first, and Nell tensed at the sight of him, because the last time she'd seen him, he'd tossed her onto a ring of holy fire and killed Kevin. But Castiel followed after him, and that, combined with the wide-eyed, sorrowful look on Sam's face, reassured her that this was the real Sam, and not the angel imposter.

Nell frowned, though, when Castiel shut the door behind him. "Where's Dean?" Come to think of it, the engine outside hadn't sounded like the Impala.

"He left," Sam said shortly. He looked pale and a little unsteady. Nell sniffed experimentally, and was surprised to note that, despite physical appearances, Sam smelled marginally better than he had when he left. There was something missing, too—something sharp and crisp in his smell that had always been there before was now absent. A similar scent draped around Castiel like a cloak, and Nell guessed it might have been grace.

"Why?"

Sam's shoulders heaved in a tight, tense shrug. "He wants to go after Gadreel alone."

Nell assumed Gadreel was the name of the angel. Nell frowned at Sam's cold look, and then at Castiel's discontented one. "And you're just gonna let him?"

Sam's jaw clenched. "I think Dean's proven that he'll do what he wants, no matter what I have to say about it."

Nell restrained an eyeroll with effort. Having read the Supernatural books, she was familiar with this pattern. First, one brother does something stupid through a well-intentioned effort to save the other brother. Then, they keep that stupid thing secret because they know the other brother wouldn't approve. Finally the secret comes out and there's an unnecessarily dramatic falling out before they inevitably come back together.

"Okay then," Nell said instead of indulging Sam's attitude further. "So, Gadreel is gone?" Then, remembering who else had left the bunker and not returned, Nell added, "And Crowley?"

Sam nodded, still glaring at thin air at the thought of what his brother did. Nell turned to Castiel for an actual explanation, since one didn't appear to be forthcoming from Sam.

"Crowley was able to 'hack' Gadreel to an extent, but it wasn't enough to expel him," Castiel explained. "We had to let Crowley possess Sam briefly, to alert him to Gadreel's presence and force him out. Abaddon arrived soon after. Crowley stayed behind to deal with her."

The idea of Crowley free and wandering the world did not comfort Nell. She thought back to his whispered threats from weeks before, and hoped that those words were merely bluffs, brought on by his irritation at his extended captivity—or at least, that he was too preoccupied in his power struggle with Abaddon to take the time to go after her.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked, changing the subject and taking in the mess in the library with wide eyes. "What is all this?"

"Kevin's work," Nell said shortly, politely ignoring Sam's flinch. "I'm trying to piece together anything I can from it."

"You have little hope of understanding it," Castiel said bluntly. "You are no prophet."

Nell hummed doubtfully. "True. But bits of this  _are_  translated, albeit into dead languages. And I'm accustomed to tedious work that involves organizing other people's mad scribblings. I was an accountant, after all."

Sam gave Nell a pitying sort of look. "Look, Nell, you don't have to do this. It's bad enough we dragged you into this. You already got hurt…" He looked pained as his eyes scanned the not-quite healed flesh on Nell's arms. "Maybe it's time you moved on."

Something like a snarl built in Nell's chest. She folded her arms and did her best to suppress it, swallow it down. She closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath, and held it for a moment, reminding herself that she did not want to kill Sam.

"I'm not leaving." Nell opened her eyes and pinned Sam with a reprimanding look. "Gadreel killed Kevin for a reason, and I intend to find out what it is."

Sam's brows drew together. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the fact that, prior to this week, Gadreel had saved your life more than once,  _and_ brought your friend Charlie back from the dead." Sam's breath caught a bit at that. Nell guessed Dean hadn't filled him in entirely, then. "And the fact that, despite having plenty of opportunity to do so, Gadreel didn't kill me  _or_  Dean, even though, living in your head, he must have known Dean would never stop going after him. So why would he kill Kevin?"

Castiel frowned, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Angels are meant to protect prophets." The angel spoke slowly, cautiously, and Nell could tell he saw credence in her theory.

"So why kill him, then?" Nell repeated. "There must be something Kevin knew, or might have found in the tablet, that made him a threat. Enough to make an otherwise nonviolent angel kill a prophet."

"Otherwise nonviolent before," Castiel corrected. "Gadreel killed at least one other angel before we caught up to him. But you do make a good point. Despite his other sins, I do not believe Gadreel would have killed Kevin without cause."

"Are you sure about this?" Sam tried. "You stay here, you might end up like Kevin. This is dangerous."

"So am I."

* * *

"I thought angels didn't need to eat."

Castiel jumped from where he was rummaging in a cabinet, and he looked vaguely guilty. "We don't," he agreed. "But some of us like to."

"Looking for anything in particular?" Nell opened the freezer and extracted a container of chicken soup. She tried to keep such things on hand just in case someone got sick, and while Sam smelled a little better than he had when he'd left, he looked worse. Paler. "I'm going to heat this up for Sam, if you'd like some."

"No, I…" Castiel looked a little embarrassed. "I was looking for peanut butter and jelly."

Not what Nell was expecting, but comfort food was comfort food, so who was she to judge? "There's bread and peanut butter in the cabinet on your left. Do you want grape, or raspberry?"

Castiel looked momentarily intrigued by the question, but then shook his head. "Grape. Please."

Nell pulled out the grape jelly, and after a moment's thought, the most recent batch of animal blood. Sam had brought it just before he left, and Nell had barely touched it in the last few days. She'd been distracted and alone, so the hunger hadn't bothered her, but now that there was a human in the bunker again, she figured she should choke it down before it went bad.

Castiel constructed his sandwich while Nell reheated the soup on the stove. Nell watched him out of the corner of her eye, curious. Castiel was the only angel she'd met, aside from Gadreel, who she didn't really count. She'd read about him in the Carver Edlund works, and heard about him from Crowley—though she took all of that with a grain of salt—but it was weird to think of him as a real person. Or angel, rather. Being.

Castiel finished constructing the sandwich and picked it up delicately, looking uncertain. He sniffed it cautiously at first, then took a small, tentative bite. A deep line formed between his brows as he chewed, and he frowned.

"Something wrong?"

Castiel looked at her, still frowning, and swallowed. "It tastes like… molecules."

"Uh." Nell struggled for a response, puzzled at what he could mean. "Doesn't everything, when you get down to it?"

Castiel shook his head disappointedly. "When I was human, I had to eat constantly. It was kind of annoying." Nell turned to stir the soup on the stove, hoping to hide the longing she was sure showed on her face. "But I enjoyed the taste of food. Particularly peanut butter with grape jelly." Castiel paused. "Not jam. Jam I found… unsettling."

"And now you don't?" Nell turned to look at him again, and caught him shaking his head.

"I taste every molecule. It's… overwhelming. And disgusting." He cast a mournful look at the rest of his sandwich and set it back down on the plate. "I miss you, PB and J."

Nell sighed. "Yeah, I know the feeling."

Castiel blinked at her, once, blue eyes wide and curious. "Dean never did explain your presence here."

"Of course he didn't," Nell muttered. "Long story short: I was mortally wounded by a vampire. Sam turned me so I wouldn't die, with the intention of curing me before I could complete the transformation." Nell paused, trying to decide how to phrase the next part.

"But you drank blood." Castiel's voice was neutral, but Nell sensed he disapproved.

"More like Crowley bled in my mouth before Sam could inject the cure," Nell corrected.

Castiel's brows rose, then furrowed. He opened his mouth to ask a question—probably what Crowley was doing with enough access to Nell that he could bleed into her mouth—but shut it as Sam shuffled into the kitchen.

He looked freshly showered, and had some more color in his face than he had when he'd first come back. He inhaled deeply as he entered the kitchen, and looked hopefully between Nell and the pot of simmering soup on the stove.

"Is that for me?"

Nell nodded and ladled a generous amount into a large bowl. "Chicken soup. Second best medicine I know, after sleep. And, I suppose, real medicine." Nell paused as Sam drew closer to accept the soup. "You smell better."

It was true. When Sam had first returned with Castiel, he'd smelled marginally better than when he'd left. Less ill. Less rotten. Today, he smelled even better. Still sick, but much improved compared to how he'd smelled for the months she'd known him.

The surprise coloring her tone made Sam blink, and he looked momentarily self-conscious before realization dawned. "Oh. Yeah, uh. Cas has been healing me."

"Good."

"Speaking of healing," Castiel followed Nell and Sam to the dining table, Sam carrying his soup and Nell her lukewarm blood. "We should continue. We're almost done."

Nell paused in the middle of popping the plastic lid off the container, fascinated to watch this in action. Castiel pressed a few fingers to Sam's temple, gently, and held them there for a few seconds. A smell like winter became stronger, briefly, before fading just as quickly as it came, and Castiel drew his fingers away. All in all, it was a little underwhelming.

Castiel frowned thoughtfully as he moved away from Sam, looking almost concerned. Sam caught the look and raised an eyebrow, a spoonful of soup halfway to his lips. "What?"

Castiel looked away evasively. "Nothing."

Sam gave Castiel an unimpressed look and set his spoon down. "You're a terrible liar."

Castiel frowned deeply. "That is not true. I once deceived and betrayed both you and your brother."

That left Sam briefly speechless. "Okay, that's not the point. What's wrong?"

Castiel hesitated. "I noticed something. It's, uh… it's resonating inside you."

Sam looked alarmed. "What?"

"Something angelic," Castiel clarified.

"Okay, what the hell does that mean?" Sam was starting to sound worried.

Castiel looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Maybe we should call Dean."

Sam shook his head immediately. "No. He wanted to go, and he's gone. We'll handle this."

Castiel looked dubious, but he seemed unwilling to argue with Winchester stubbornness, at least for now. He wandered off among the books, poking around to see what he could find on angelic possession. Sam looked tempted to follow, but Nell stared at him expectantly and he tucked into his soup with a sigh and a scowl.

Hours later, Castiel identified the odd resonance as a small bit of leftover grace from Gadreel's possession of Sam. After Castiel reassured Sam that the grace itself was harmless, Nell only listened with half an ear to the rest of their conversation, returning most of her focus to organizing Kevin's notes into some semblance of order.

* * *

The library was dark. Nell sat alone with her phone to her ear, and was unsurprised when no one picked up and she was directed to voicemail.

"Hey, Dean. It's Nell. Your brother is too stubborn to call you, so I figured I'd keep you updated. Let's see…" Nell leaned back in her chair and cast her eyes to the ceiling as she recounted the major developments Dean ought to know about. "Sam is healed, completely now. Smells better and everything. Castiel found a bit of leftover grace from Gadreel left behind in Sam while he was healing him, and they tried to extract it to perform a tracking spell, but apparently there wasn't enough grace left for the spell to work properly."

Nell left out the part where Sam had screamed during the extraction and Nell had run to the medical bay, fangs bared and ready to tear Dean's favorite angel's throat out.

For a moment, when she'd heard the scream, she'd been frozen. She was in the doorway again, watching an angel in Sam's body smite Kevin. Kevin was screaming, and his body was falling, falling, still on the floor. She could smell the burned flesh of his ruined eyes.

But only for a moment, because Kevin was dead, and it wasn't his voice screaming, but Sam's. Nell couldn't remember ever moving as fast as she had then. She had arrived in the door, fangs out and ready to tackle the angel, in mere seconds. Castiel had looked surprised at her sudden appearance and shot her an apologetic look. It was this expression that kept Nell from attacking him, and Castiel held her eyes as he slowly, gently pressed his fingers to Sam's forehead once more. There was no bright light, no sizzle of burning flesh this time. Only the wintery smell of healing.

Then Sam was sitting up, appearing indignant but no longer in pain, and Nell had slunk away with a silent nod to the angel.

"What else…" Nell tapped her fingers on the table, enjoying the steady drumming sound that resulted. "Castiel thinks Metatron is the key to fixing everything, so he's focused on trying to find him, as well as Gadreel. It's proving pretty difficult to figure out a way to track an angel, though. I, meanwhile, have been going through Kevin's notes. And it's… slow going, to be honest. But I'm convinced—and Castiel agrees with me on this—that Gadreel killed Kevin because he might have learned something from the angel tablet. I'm no prophet, but I'm hoping if I stare at this stuff long enough, I'll be able to make some sort of sense out of it."

Nell paused and sighed. She probably didn't have much longer before the voicemail system timed out. "At least shoot me a text every couple of days to let me know you're okay, alright? You don't have to tell me where you are, or what you're doing, but I'd feel better knowing you're not dead in a ditch somewhere." Another sigh. "Stay safe."

Nell ended the call and stared sourly at the screen of her phone. No new notifications. No calls or texts from Dean at all, even though he'd been gone for over a week. She knew he was incredibly deadly and more than capable of taking care of himself, but he was also accustomed to having his brother around to watch his back. Nell didn't think she could handle it if Sam or Dean died. Not so soon after losing Kevin.

She was barely holding onto her sanity through the manic determination to find and kill Gadreel. If she lost Sam or Dean, one of the few beings in this world who knew her for what she was and who she was and didn't want to chop her head off, she thought she might lose the tentative grip she maintained on her humanity. And if that grip slipped… Nell wasn't sure she could ever get it back.

"Sam wouldn't approve of your calling Dean behind his back."

Nell's eyes flicked over to Castiel, who stood in the doorway of the library watching her with wide, solemn blue eyes.

"Behind his back?" Nell asked, faux-innocently. "I called him in the library. Sam could have walked in at any time."

"It is three in the morning," Castiel pointed out, though there was a quirk at the corner of his mouth and a light in his eyes that made Nell think that he, at least, did  _not_ disapprove of Nell's call. "Sam is asleep."

Nell hummed. "Human sleep schedules. So hard to keep track of."

Castiel shook his head, walking further into the library and frowning thoughtfully at the mess of papers spread out before her. He tilted his head at her curiously, eyes narrowed. "You do realize that what you're attempting to do here is almost certainly impossible?"

"I prefer to think of it as a challenge," Nell said lightly. She'd only just managed to order Kevin's scribblings according to whatever dead language they appeared to be written in.

Castiel's eyes only narrowed further in puzzlement. "Learning Japanese is a challenge. This… This is like trying to translate the Rosetta Stone with nothing but a modern Greek phrasebook." The angel looked vaguely proud at coming up with the comparison.

"Yes, thank you for your input," Nell muttered, wishing the angel would take his negativity elsewhere.

"You're welcome," Castiel said, sincerely. Nell sighed.

"Look, I know this is going to be difficult. You don't have to tell me—I'm the one who's been staring at all of this for days. But I  _can't_  give up on this." Nell swallowed, because she didn't think she could convey with words how true that last sentence was, and on how many levels. "This is why Kevin is dead. And right now, it's the only avenue available to me to avenge him. So I  _have_ to take it."

Castiel frowned at her some more, and Nell had the very uncomfortable sensation that the angel was looking  _through_  her. She wondered, vaguely, whether he could actually see her soul.

"You cared about Kevin." It was part statement, part request for confirmation. Nell nodded, tightly.

Nell had never had a younger brother, but Kevin came close. Before he had died, Nell had explained away the unusually strong familial fondness she held for Kevin as a result of prolonged contact and shared hardship. It made sense, after all, to become attached to the one person she spent the most time with. But now that he was gone, the rabid animal in her chest that was roaring for revenge, for blood, made her think it went deeper than that.

Kevin wasn't just some kid she'd taken care of. He wasn't a friend. He was a brother, and the connection went deep. Soul deep.

Finally, Castiel nodded. "I understand," he assured her, though Nell seriously doubted that he did. She hardly understood it herself, could barely keep up with the ferocity of the emotions which kept her doggedly paging through scribblings it would take a literal miracle for her to understand.

"Let me know if I can be of use," Castiel offered awkwardly. "I can't read the tablets, but I am fairly well-versed in many ancient languages."

Now  _that_  was a lot more useful than sympathy.

* * *

Dean's phone buzzed on the center console of the Impala. He didn't bother to glance at it. Only one person had been calling him lately, and she didn't expect him to pick up. He was a little curious about the timing—Nell usually didn't call while the sun was up—but he wasn't about to pick up, or to listen to the inevitable message in front of the demon riding in the passenger seat.

Crowley did not ignore the buzzing phone, though.

"You going to get that?" He asked lightly. "Or shall I?" Crowley reached for the phone.

"Don't touch it," Dean ground out. Crowley ignored him, plucking the phone up and looking at it with interest. Dean glared and said more insistently, "Just let it go to voicemail."

"My, my," Crowley remarked softly. "Quite the collection you've got here. Let's see… Nell, Nell, Nell, Nell, Nell…" Crowley tutted. "Screening your girlfriend's calls isn't very polite."

"Shut up," Dean bit out, making a blind swipe for the phone with one hand. "Give it back."

"Ah!" Crowley held the phone out of Dean's reach. "Distracted driving kills, Squirrel. Eyes on the road."

Crowley was tapping on the phone now, and Dean growled. "Crowley, don't—"

" _Hey, Dean._ " Crowley had started playing the message on speaker. Dean clamped his jaw shut tightly, resigned to the fact that Crowley would hear the message.

" _Sorry if you hear weird noises in the background this time. I had to get out of the bunker for a bit, so I'm walking in the woods, but there's a very territorial owl around here that has it out for me, so if I scream and drop the call, I promise I'm not being attacked by anything seriously threatening."_

Dean couldn't help smiling at the image of Nell screaming and dropping the phone while fighting off a bird.

" _Anyway, Castiel says hi. I mean, he doesn't_ really _, but he caught me calling you the other night and seemed to sort of approve of me sneakily calling you behind Sam's back, so… anyway. Things are fine here. Tense, but fine. Sam's still pissed, and Castiel is kind of tiptoeing around him, unsure how to handle it. I admit I'm kind of avoiding him, too, because this whole Kevin thing is still driving me crazy._

" _I've actually made some progress on the notes—Castiel was kind enough to translate some of the bits that Kevin had managed to translate into dead languages from nonsensical scribbles. Unfortunately, at this point it's all stuff we already know. Holy oil, banishing sigils, that sort of thing. No big secrets, no weapons… nothing that looks important enough to murder a prophet over._

" _I hope you're doing better at tracking down the asshole that killed Kevin than I am at finishing his work. Not being able to do anything, not being able to avenge him… it's got my teeth on edge. I feel like every day that passes without that angel's head on a pike is winding me tighter and tighter, and I don't know how long…_ " Nells voice trailed off with a gusty sigh.

" _But we'll be alright_.  _Good luck. Stay safe. Come home soon._ " The call ended.

Silence reigned for a minute as Dean took in the new information. Then Crowley asked, "What was she talking about?"

Dean shot a glance at the demon, half cautious, half suspicious. "Which part?"

"Important enough to murder a prophet over," Crowley repeated carefully.

"Right, that." Dean frowned out at the road. "Nell's got this theory that Gadreel killed Kevin to stop him from finding something in the angel tablet. Something that could help us put the angels back in heaven, and stop Metatron." Dean shook his head. "Cas told her that she'd have better luck finding a needle in a haystack, but the chick's determined. I don't know if it's a vampire thing, or if it's just who she is, but she's already done more than Sam or I could've with Kevin's notes, so who knows? Maybe she'll find something."

* * *

Dean stayed away for a month. Christmas and New Year's came and went, utterly uncelebrated. Nell had thought, before, that she and Sam might find a tree at the farmer's market one weekend, and they could all celebrate together like the weird little family they'd somehow become. But Kevin was dead, and Dean was gone, and it seemed better to just pretend that the holidays didn't exist than to acknowledge what was missing, or, worse, to to celebrate despite it.

Nell received no warning when Dean returned with Sam. The Winchesters had either forgotten to let her know, or had intentionally kept it from her, like a surprise. Nell couldn't decide which was more likely. All she knew was that she heard the approaching engine of Dean's car, and that for some reason the sound brought her, not comfort, but a deep sense of unease.

The feeling only got worse when the engine stopped. The brothers parked, and Sam and Dean re-entered the bunker together, walking down the stairs. Nell stayed at her table in the library, watching them carefully. If her heart still beat, it would have been going a mile a minute.

Something was wrong with Dean. It wasn't a smell. Nell didn't know what it was, precisely. All she knew was that something was  _wrong_  with him, that it was  _dangerous_ , and that she should stay  _far, far away_.

Sam was blissfully unaware of the danger. He greeted Nell warmly and then excused himself almost immediately to take a shower. Dean lingered at the bottom of the steps, bag still slung over his shoulder, and gave Nell a slightly tense smile.

"Long time no see."

Nell waited until she heard Sam's door close before she asked, "What's wrong with you?"

Dean's brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?" He readjusted his bag and started to walk further into the library. Without conscious thought, Nell backed away, trying to put more distance between them.

"Don't come any closer." Nell put out a hand, as if to ward Dean away, and he halted several yards away, deeply confused. "What is  _wrong_  with you?"

"Nell, I have no idea what you're talking about." Dean sounded sincere enough, but that didn't silence the alarm bells clanging in Nell's head. Dean took another hesitant step forward, and Nell retreated until her back was pressed into the library wall. Dean stopped again, looking hurt.

" _Stop_ ," Nell pleaded, then began to babble. "Dean, I—I know, in my head, that it's you. I can smell that it's you, but my instincts are telling me that I am  _prey_  and you're a fucking  _mountain lion_ , and if you don't stop trying to walk towards me I don't know if I will pick fight or flight, so please,  _please_  stay back."

Some of the confusion left Dean's face, and his lips thinned. He slowly put up his hands in a gesture of peace. "Just take it easy, okay? I'm not gonna hurt you."

Nell kept her back pressed against the wall, chest heaving. "What did you  _do_ , Dean? What is this? It's not  _natural_."

"It's nothing." He said it in the same tone he'd used to tell her not to worry about Sam and the way he smelled.

"It is  _not_  nothing!" Nell cried, voice rising. Dean hurriedly shushed her.

"Keep it down, would you?"

Nell grit her teeth. "I don't know what you've done, Dean, but it's dangerous, and foul, and the fact that you're trying to keep it a secret from me, from Sam—"

"Sam knows!" Dean cut in quickly. Nell narrowed her eyes.

"I really doubt that." Nell waited, but Dean didn't say anything. He wasn't going to tell her what he'd done, what had changed to make her react like this. Jaw clenched, Nell started edging along the library wall, taking the longest route possible to make her way to the stairs while keeping as much distance between herself and Dean as possible. "I'm almost out of blood. I'm going to go out."

"Nell, come on." Dean said, imploring, but wisely didn't take a step toward her. "Don't leave."

Nell looked at him. A little hollowly, she said, "There's apple pie in the kitchen."

And then she fled, up the stairs to the garage, then driving out into town as fast as she dared.

She did not drive directly to the butcher's shop. At first she drove blindly, without real direction, trying to make sense of what was going on. More Winchester secrets, more danger. Nell didn't know what Dean had done to himself, but she was positive that whatever it was was a mistake, and that he'd live to regret it.

Nell worried for him, and for Sam, and for herself—because as long as Dean felt like he did, and evoked the instinctive, fearful reaction in Nell, she wasn't sure she could stay at the bunker any longer.

It took her an hour to make the twenty minute drive to the butcher's shop, and she was lucky to make it in before they closed. She placed her usual order absent-mindedly, accepting it from the butcher in a daze.

Because of her distraction, Nell made it all the way to her car and had put the blood in the trunk before she registered the delicious, intoxicating,  _wonderful_  smell. It took her a moment longer of sniffing the air, hungry and puzzled, to realize why that should alarm her: because the only one who'd ever smelled anywhere  _close_ to this good was Crowley.

Nell slammed the trunk of the car shut and whirled around. The demon was a woman, with long brown hair, a short skirt, and an unimpressed scowl. In one hand she held a syringe filled with a dark liquid. With her free hand she snatched at Nell, and rolled her eyes when Nell frantically backpedaled.

"Really? You think you can outrun a demon?" Nell glanced back at the butcher shop, bright and warm and safe, and probably well-stocked with salt. The demon followed her gaze and tsked. "I really wouldn't do that if you want that human to live."

The demon had a point. Even if Nell could beat her inside, there was no way she'd be able to create a ring of salt in time, let alone protect the butcher. Still, Nell brought her fists up in a ready position and grounded herself, ready for a fight. If she had to go down, she'd go down swinging. If Nell got lucky, she might even be able to keep the bitch down long enough to get into her car and drive away.

The demon looked completely unthreatened by Nell's fists, only exasperated. "You spend too much time with the Winchesters. And as much as I would  _love_  to kill you, slowly, I have orders not to."

Nell blinked, not sure what to do with that information. But orders meant  _boss,_ and boss probably meant Crowley, given that he was apparently the King of Hell, and now very much  _not_ locked in a dungeon. Nell's breath hitched at the memory of the whispered threats and promises Crowley had made while he'd been chained up. She had hoped, desperately, that he'd only been bluffing. To get to her, or to encourage her to set him free.

She remembered, with dread, the fervent conviction with which he'd said the words, " _I_  keep my bargains."

The demon continued speaking, unaware of Nell's growing fear. "But those orders don't extend to humans." She looked meaningfully at the butcher shop, then back at Nell. "So I suggest you be a good little girl and come quietly... or I'll butcher the butcher."

The demon smiled, an ugly look on her pretty face. "Or don't. I'll have fun either way."

Nell thought quickly for any way out of this situation, but dread and resignation already had her lowering her fists. There were only two ways this could end: the demon took her, or the demon killed the butcher and  _then_  took her. There was no other way, no situation where she escaped.

She wished, desperately, that she knew an exorcism, or carried a demon-killing blade like the one she knew the Winchesters possessed. Even a flask of holy water. But she had nothing. She hadn't expected to leave the bunker today, let alone run into any demons. She wasn't a hunter.

"Shame." The demon smiled wickedly and sauntered forward. Nell backed into her car, fear driving her backwards even though she knew she should just give in, because this was inevitable and she might as well just accept it. "I was almost looking forward to bathing in his blood."

The demon jabbed the syringe into Nell's neck, roughly. Nell yelped at the pain of the needle going in, but then the demon pressed the plunger and the dark liquid was flowing through her veins. Dead man's blood, Nell realized belatedly as her eyes drooped. She felt dizzy, nauseous. Her vision was going dark. She wondered, as she toppled forward, whether this was the closest she'd ever come to sleeping again.

* * *

"Where's Nell?"

Sam had showered off the grime of days on the road, and was hoping for some food that wasn't delivered in a paper bag. Not that he wouldn't cook for himself, but Nell truly seemed to like cooking. She seemed to live vicariously through them, watching enviously as they enjoyed the food she'd prepared, and whenever they returned from a hunt she usually had food prepared already, or quickly started preparing some.

So it was unusual that Sam couldn't find Nell in the kitchen, and even more unusual that he couldn't find her anywhere  _else_ , either.

Dean looked more irritable than Sam had ever seen him with apple pie in his mouth. "She went out on a blood run."

Sam blinked, then checked his watch. "When? The butcher's shop's been closed for an hour."

Dean shrugged. "She's a big girl, Sam. Maybe she just needed to get out for a bit."

Sam wasn't convinced, and he was starting to get worried. He pulled out his phone and dialed Nell's number, tapping his foot impatiently as the phone rang. Finally it went to voicemail and Sam shook his head, ending the call. He tried again, and again. If Nell was driving she might ignore one call, but two, three, four in a row? She would have pulled over to answer.

"She's not picking up."

"It's not like she's gonna run off," Dean said, though after how quickly Nell had fled the bunker he wasn't entirely sure about that. "She wouldn't leave without her stuff, or Kevin's notes."

Sam looked at the notes still piled on the library table and relaxed a little. Still, he said resolutely, "I'm going to the butcher's shop."

"Dude, come on," Dean protested. "Give her some space. She hasn't even been gone three hours!"

"She's never been gone that long before," Sam pointed out, already making for the stairs. "And it's not like her not to answer her phone."

"What happens when you find her and she's—" Dean was at a loss for a moment about what Nell could possibly be doing out of the bunker that would keep her from answering her phone. "-getting laid?"

Sam shot Dean a disdainful look. "She's not  _you_ , Dean. Are you coming?"

Dean wasn't sure if it was a good idea for him to go after Nell, given the way she'd left. But Sam was right that it was weird, and if she was still afraid of him—well, Sam would find out about it sooner or later.

"Yeah, I'm coming."

Dean had never been to the butcher's shop before, but with Sam's directions and some minor traffic law violations, they made the drive in under fifteen minutes.

"That's her car," Sam pointed out as they pulled to a stop near the butcher's shop.

Dean parked a few spots away and both he and Sam got out, but it was clear from a glance that the car was empty. The butcher shop was already dark, closed for the day, and no other cars were parked out front.

Sam approached Nell's car in quick, long strides. Dean followed behind more slowly, and watched as his brother crouched down to pick something up.

"Whatcha got there?"

Looking grim, Sam turned and held up Nell's car keys. He tossed them to Dean, and said shortly, "Smell."

Dean caught the keys and obediently brought them close to his face, but from Sam's command and the look on his face he already knew what he'd find. "Sulfur."

"You think it's Abaddon?" Sam asked, looking around the car for any more clues. There was nothing. No message—not even blood. The only sign of a scuffle were the abandoned keys and Nell's absence.

"How would Abaddon even know about her?" Dean shook his head. "There's only one demon who knows about Nell."

Sam's face darkened. Together they said, "Crowley."


	10. Chapter 10

"Good morning."

Nell stared. She was still a little dizzy and disoriented from the dead man's blood. It was hard to focus on anything besides the intoxicating smell of Crowley's blood, closer than he'd ever been since the first time she'd tasted him.

Slowly, she forced her sluggish mind to get to work and assess the situation she was in. She was in what appeared to be a hotel room, lying on a couch. Her wrists and ankles were bound with zip ties. And Crowley was standing perhaps five feet away from her, studying her. He wore dark silk pajamas.

For a few long minutes they just stared at each other. Crowley seemed to be waiting for her to say something, but when Nell continued not to speak he sighed, as if disappointed.

"Nothing? No, 'Where am I? Why are you doing this? Let me go!'?"

Those were all good questions, but between the dead man's blood and the smell of Crowley all around her, all Nell could manage was a slightly drunken, "You're wearing pajamas."

Crowley shrugged and crossed to a side table, withdrawing a bottle of scotch and a tumbler. "It's 4am," he said as he poured. "The entire hemisphere is wearing pajamas."

Nell thought there was something wrong with that logic, but couldn't place it. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to fight off the headache pounding in her temples. God, she was hungry. She took shallow breaths through her mouth, trying to ignore it.

"Let go with 'why are you doing this', then," Nell said at last. Crowley didn't reply. Nell opened her eyes to look at him again, and found him sipping his scotch and watching her with dark eyes. "Last I checked you were sort-of allies with the Winchesters on the whole killing-Abaddon thing, so I don't really see what benefit you get from kidnapping me."

"Can never have too much leverage," said Crowley.

"I'm pretty sure you can," said Nell. "And I'm pretty sure this is it."

"Agree to disagree," Crowley said easily, then sobered a bit. "Besides.. The things I babbled in that dungeon alone…"

Nell was not immediately sure whether he was referring to the potentially-sensitive information he'd told her about a variety of topics and events, or to the whispered threats he'd made to her person when she refused to let him out of the dungeon. She subtly flexed her wrists to feel out the restraints, and decided that she could probably snap them without too much trouble. The difficult part would be evading Crowley and bolting from the room before he could stop her.

"I never told anyone," Nell said, which was true of both the information and the threats.

"Yes," Crowley agreed, sounding curious. He did not blink. "That, I gathered. What I don't know, is  _why_."

Nell shrugged and glanced away, starting to get unnerved by Crowley's stare. She didn't have an answer for him, not really. She'd kept her conversations with Crowley secret from everyone, because she knew both the Winchesters and Kevin would never approve of her talking to him. She had been curious, and Crowley had had information. But the threats, and everything else… it seemed too private to reveal to anyone else. And anyway, Nell couldn't see a point to spilling Crowley's secrets.

"If all you need is my silence, then you have it," Nell said, trying to be appeasing.

Crowley gave her an odd sort of fond look. "There's only one way two people can keep a secret, darling." He paused, and Nell completed what he'd left unspoken:  _If one of them is dead._ "And sometimes, not even then."

"You're not going to kill me," Nell said, only about 80% sure of this.

"Oh?" Crowley raised his eyebrows in interest. "Do tell."

"For one, if you wanted me dead, you had plenty of opportunity while I was unconscious," Nell reasoned aloud. Crowley shook his head, looking a little disappointed.

"But that would be no  _fun_." His eyes were bright, and Nell shuddered. Crowley caught the movement and smiled, darkly pleased. "You don't know me at all, darling. I like to take… my… time."

" _Two_ ," Nell continued, a little desperately, "the Winchesters would kill you." Nell and Dean's last conversation aside, Nell was pretty confident about that. They didn't take well to their friends being kidnapped by demons.

"That I do believe," Crowley conceded.

"Let me go, then."

The hand holding Crowley's glass of scotch spasmed for a second. "No."

The disorientation from the dead man's blood was wearing off now, and leaving anger in its wake. Being drugged and kidnapped was bad enough, but Nell was also hungry, and that irritation was feeding into the murderous rage she'd been nurturing since Kevin was killed.

"Look," Nell said tensely, "We can forget this ever happened. Drop me back at my car, and I'll come up with some excuse for why I dropped off the radar for a while. I won't even mention your name, but I  _can't_ stay—"

"I said  _NO!_ "

The tumbler shattered against the wall in a tinkling of glass, and then Crowley had crossed the room, hand fisting in Nell's hair and yanking her painfully upright on the couch. He leaned close as if he might yell some more, or maybe threaten her. It hardly mattered. Nell couldn't think. Her brain had short-circuited, every sense overwhelmed with the smell of him, and how close he was, and the heat of his hand in her hair.

Nell moaned helplessly, and wasn't sure if it was out of want, or protest. Crowley froze at the sound. Slowly, a smile crept across his face.

"Hungry, are we?" Crowley looked positively delighted now. Nell closed her eyes and stopped breathing. If she just didn't look at him, didn't  _smell_  him…

"That's right… Lola took you on a blood run, didn't she? And now with all this excitement… you must be starving." Crowley paused. Almost casually, he continued, "I just so happen to have some blood on hand. B positive, cruelty-free, 100% donated human blood."

Nell hesitantly opened her eyes, trying to gauge his expression. Crowley made no move to fetch the blood. His eyes were fixed on hers. When he saw that he had her full attention again, his tongue darted across his lips.

"I could give it to you," Crowley said softly. "But, from the way you're so stubbornly refusing to breathe… I suspect I have something you want more."

Nell shook her head mutely. She didn't trust herself to open her mouth, not even to speak. She tried to lean back, away from the demon, but his hand was still tangled in her hair, holding her fast.

"You can't lie to me," Crowley said, almost sympathetically. "Nell. You're shivering. Your eyes are nearly black, your pupils are so wide."

Crowley smiled, indulgently, and tilted his head to the side, exposing his neck in invitation. Nell's teeth descended without her consent, and she shut her eyes in shame. She didn't want to see the expression on Crowley's face.

"Go on, darling. Have a taste." Crowley tugged lightly at Nell's hair, trying to urge her forward. She held stubbornly still, eyes still tightly shut. Crowley sighed gustily.

"Such resolve in the face of temptation. I'd almost find that admirable, if it weren't so obnoxious." Crowley paused. He removed his hand from Nell's hair, and she slowly opened her eyes, hardly believing that he'd give up, just like that. "But everyone has their breaking point."

Crowley brought his hand to his own neck. Eyes still fixed on Nell, he carelessly tugged at the skin with his nails. A thin line of bright red blood bloomed along his jugular vein.

Nell was distantly aware that she must have snapped the zip ties. She must have, because her hands were clutching Crowley's neck and shoulders desperately when her teeth sank into his neck, and then she was drinking.

She had thought it was good before, and then it had been only drops. Then, the small amount had awakened her thirst and left her broken and monstrous and wanting  _more_. This was no scarce trickle, hastily shoved into Nell's mouth from across a metal table in a cold dungeon. This was a flood, like a rainstorm in the desert, and it was  _magnificent_.

The only word that Nell could think of to describe the taste of Crowley's blood was  _ecstasy_ , and then only after—because there was no thinking while her lips were at his neck, drinking. There was only the warmth of his body, the heat of his blood pouring down her throat, and the loud  _thump thump thump_ of the demon's heart.

"Nell." Crowley had gasped her name when she bit him, as if he was surprised—which was stupid, because this was exactly what he wanted. One of his hands had tangled in her hair again almost immediately, and Nell allowed it only because he seemed more inclined to urge Nell closer than to pull her away. Crowley gasped desperate breaths, neck moving under Nell's insistent teeth and tongue, and his heart beat quickly, deafeningly in Nell's ears and mouth and stomach.

After an age, but also much too soon, Crowley tugged her away from his neck. Nell reluctantly withdrew her teeth from his neck, but stayed to eagerly swipe the last drops of welling blood from his neck. Crowley shuddered and pulled her away more insistently, and Nell sat back to look at him, head spinning.

She felt utterly drunk, now, but it was the light, giddy kind of inebriation, not the awful sluggishness she'd felt upon waking. She felt like she could dance for an eternity. She felt like she could kiss someone.

Crowley's eyes were wide and intent and nearly drunk himself, eyes fixed on Nell's mouth as she licked the last drops of his blood clean from her lips. He pulled Nell toward him by the hair, and she let him.

Kissing Crowley was nearly as satisfying as drinking his blood. It didn't fill her stomach, but Nell had been starved of touch for nearly as long as she'd been starved of blood, and this kiss did satisfy that hunger. And still she was engulfed in the smell of him, the taste of him—the sound of him, as he moaned against her lips and pulled her closer and nipped at her lips until she opened them. Then his tongue was in her mouth, tasting his own blood on her tongue, and they were both moaning.

After a while, it was  _too_  good. Crowley's blood had set her on fire and put all of her senses on overdrive. She could see everything, hear everything,  _feel_  everything five times more intensely. She withstood the feeling as long as she could, but it built and built until it was painful. Nell pulled away, falling away from Crowley and back onto the couch and edging away from his outstretched hands.

Nell closed her eyes and covered her ears, huddling into as tight a ball as she could and trying to minimize the overwhelming sensations.

"Fascinating," Crowley breathed, hardly a whisper, and Nell flinched at the volume. She pressed her hands harder against her ears and tried to block him out, block it  _all_ out.

Time passed. Crowley left at some point, leaving Nell to lie on the couch, dazed and oversensitive. She could hear  _everything_. The television in the next room, the other occupants of the hotel snoring and eating and fucking, the honking and sputtering cars outside, the incessant twittering of birds.

If Nell moved her head, it spun like a top. If she moved her body, the fabric of her clothes and the upholstery of the couch scraped against her like sandpaper. She wanted to tear off her clothes and scream and destroy, and she wanted to burrow into a blanket, safe and silent, and never leave.

And she felt lost because for once, for the first time ever, the voice in the back of her mind that growled and reasoned and wheedled for  _blood_ was quiet. Because she was full. So full she was dizzy, so content she was drunk.

And that should have scared her. It should have shamed her, alarmed her to know she could want something,  _anything_  this much, that she should take such relish in drinking a demon's blood. It should feel wrong, and dirty. She should be ashamed of her own weakness.

But she couldn't feel any of that. In the absence of hunger, all she could feel was bliss.

* * *

Over time, the effects of Crowley's blood subsided. After a few hours, Nell felt less like she was experiencing a bad, yet simultaneously  _wonderful_ , drug trip and more like she was pleasantly tipsy. She was then able, for the first time, to really examine her surroundings.

She had noted before that the place appeared to be a hotel room, but had been too distracted by Crowley to truly examine it closely. Now, Nell saw that it was a fairly lavish suite. The couch she woke up on was in the main sitting room, which also contained a coffee table, two armchairs, a television, and the cabinet from which Crowley had produced his scotch.

On the far right side of the room, curtains covered glass windows which looked out on a balcony. Since the clock in the room now told Nell that it was nearly noon, she didn't go out to investigate it. now read that it was nearly noon. Behind Nell was an open door which led to a bedroom. The sheets of the bed were rumpled, but Nell wasn't sure whether this meant that Crowley had slept in it, or whether it had been used for… other activities.

The bed wasn't the only thing that was rumpled, either. The whole suite was in disarray. Discarded clothes were scattered haphazardly across the bedroom floor. Shattered glass littered the carpet of the main room from where Crowley had thrown his tumbler at the wall. A few grease-stained pizza boxes were stacked on top of each other on the counter of the room's small kitchenette, and the coffee table was littered with take out boxes, used napkins, and half-empty bottles of alcohol. Yet a few more empty bottles had rolled under it.

Most puzzling of all, though, were the  _syringes_ scattered about. There was one on the bedside table in the bedroom, one in the kitchenette, and two on the coffee table, within arms reach of the couch. All of them smelled of human blood.

Past the disorderly kitchenette were two doors. One looked to be a coat closet. The other was the exit.

Crowley was not there. Nell could have bolted out the door and made a run for it before he got back, and would have, were it not for the sun. Nell still had a good six hours before the sun went down, and she didn't see her hat or gloves around anywhere. If she tried to leave the hotel, she'd burn before she could get anywhere.

And it wasn't like she could just leave the room and hide out somewhere else in the hotel until sundown, either. It was simply too long a time to play hide and seek. Crowley would find her.

There was a landline phone in the room, but it was useless to her. With the advent of cell phones, Nell had given up on memorizing telephone numbers ages ago. Even if she hadn't, there was no way she could have remembered Sam or Dean's number—they had half a dozen cell phones each, and they replaced them all the time. She would never have been able to keep up.

So, tabling the idea of escape at least until sundown, Nell snooped. Beyond the general mess there wasn't much to find. Crowley had not left anything particularly sensitive laying around—beyond the syringes, at least. There were no computers, no cell phones, and no indications whatsoever about any Evil Master Plans.

There were several finely tailored and very expensive-looking suits hanging in the closet, and a few more sets of silk pajamas of the type Crowley had been wearing when she woke up in the bedroom dresser. Also in the bedroom dresser were a number of items that Nell had only ever seen in internet videos, and which would have made her blush to her roots had she still been capable of flushing. Instead she had shut the drawer quickly, mouth dry, and resolved that she was done snooping.

Nell showered. It was extremely pleasant, and she took her time. She had grown accustomed to showers in the bunker, where the old pipes and antique water heater meant that the water there never got quite as hot as Nell would have liked. The hotel did not have this problem, and so Nell washed herself in water so hot it was nearly scalding. An unexpected advantage of being a vampire was that her skin no longer pruned from prolonged exposure to water. Nell stood under the spray of deliciously hot water for nearly an hour before finally emerging, smelling of the hotel's rosemary and lavender soap and engulfed in the softest robe she'd ever worn.

She found Crowley lounging on the couch, eyes half-lidded and an empty syringe in his lap. He smelled of blood and sex and the female demon who'd shot her up with dead man's blood to bring her here.

Nell picked her way across the room with care to avoid any broken glass, and sat down in one of the armchairs. Crowley watched her with lazy, catlike contentment. His eyes looked glassy.

"Crowley," Nell said gently, wondering if he was even sober enough to hear her. But he hummed and turned to face her more fully, so Nell asked, "Why am I really here?"

It had been bothering her ever since she could think straight. For all that Crowley might have threatened her when he was in the dungeon, and for all that he might have wanted to hurt her, Nell didn't think he'd find his revenge worth risking with Winchester's wrath. Not now, and not like this. And then, after the blood, and what had come after the blood, Nell had suspected that maybe Crowley never meant to hurt her at all.

But that left the question of what he  _did_  mean to do.

Crowley's brow furrowed. It seemed to take him a moment to fully parse the question, and when he did he smacked his lips uncertainly. Finally he said, "I don't remember."

Of all the answers Nell had been expecting,  _that_  had not been one. "You don't  _remember_?" Nell repeated, disbelieving.

Crowley actually looked a little apologetic, which if anything just confused Nell further. "Things get a little foggy, when I…" Crowley trailed off, gesturing at the syringe in his lap.

Nell eyed it suspiciously. She had heard Sam tell Dean that Crowley had shot up some of Kevin's blood, and she had of course seen the syringed littered about the suite and guessed their purpose. But she had never  _seen_  Crowley do it, and the effect it had on him was… unsettling.

He was the King of Hell, after all. He was supposed to be powerful and scary and fierce. He'd  _cut off Kevin's_ finger. He'd ordered one of his  _demon servants_  to abduct Nell—and he couldn't even remember why?

No, Nell didn't see the appeal in this sort of drug. Not for Crowley. But, as Crowley's eyes started to droop shut, she did see some appeal in it for  _herself_. The curtains which covered the suite's large windows were glowing dark orange now. The sun was setting.

Nell used every ounce of stealth she had to creep back into the bedroom. She dropped the robe and dressed hurriedly. She left her shoes off, carrying them in her hand as she tiptoed on bare feet back into the main room and toward the exit to the suite.

"If you walk out that door, I will find you."

Nell jerked to a halt, then turned. Crowley's eyes were still shut, and his body was utterly relaxed, but his voice contained none of its earlier drowsiness. He continued.

"And if I can't find you, then I will find your parents, and your brother, and your niece and nephew." Nell stiffened. She had mentioned her parents and her brother when she first met Crowley, when she was still in the process of turning—but she had never mentioned her niece and nephew around him. Which meant he had already done  _research_  on this. "I will find every ex boyfriend, every ex girlfriend, and your favorite sixth grade teacher."

He rattled off the threats as casually as if he were reading off a grocery list. Worse, Nell highly doubted he was bluffing. She knew very well what Crowley was capable of.

It didn't keep her from trying to argue, though.

"You don't understand," Nell said, a little more desperately than she intended to. Crowley's eyes slid slowly open, and she continued, "I have to get  _back_ , I have to keep working on Kevin's notes. I can't just sit here, knowing Gadreel is out there somewhere, walking free."

Just saying the damn angel's name made her tense, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. "Just the  _thought_ of it drives me crazy." Nell hesitated, and then voiced the fear that had been growing in the back of her mind for weeks. "Crowley, if I don't avenge Kevin's death soon, I think I might actually go insane."

Crowley sat straight up, eyes narrowed and studying Nell analytically. He looked completely sober now, eyes scanning her up and down.

Finally he said, amazed, "You imprinted on him."

Nell blinked, and revised her opinion that Crowley had sobered up. Clearly, he was still very high. "What kind of Twilight bullshit are you babbling now?"

"Not like Twilight," Crowley denied easily. He was looking at Nell like she was a particularly interesting museum exhibit. "More like... baby duck. Or, in this case, baby vampire."

Nell fixed the demon with a distinctly unimpressed look. Crowley rolled his eyes.

"It's a survival instinct. Helps new vampires bond to their maker and the nest, forming strong, deep attachments very quickly," Crowley lectured, sounding almost bored. "But there were no other vampires around after you turned, so you imprinted on the only available alternative."

"Kevin."

It made sense. It actually answered some questions Nell had, doubts about the way she felt and why she felt that way. Despite only knowing Kevin for a few months, he'd felt like a brother. Nell had reasoned that that was natural—they'd been alone together a lot, and gone through some hardship together. They'd supported each other. Things like that tended to lead to strong friendships.

But they did  _not_  lead to the fervent, manic  _need_  for revenge that had consumed Nell almost as powerfully as her hunger for blood. But imprinting… that would make sense.

Crowley nodded at her, and added, "And the Winchesters, I'd wager." His lips parted, as if he was going to continue, but stopped himself.

"What does that mean, then?" Nell asked when Crowley stayed quiet.

"It means you're right," said Crowley. "If you don't find a way to avenge Kevin, you  _will_  eventually go insane."

He appeared to be utterly serious. Nell gaped at him. "Then let me go!"

Crowley blinked exaggeratedly. "I could have  _sworn_ we already had this conversation."

They had certainly started it, but they had never truly finished it—instead of a true resolution it had ended with her teeth in his neck and his tongue in her mouth. Her mouth watered just thinking about it, and she had to swallow. Crowley's eyes followed the movement, far too knowing.

"You  _just said_  you don't even remember why you want me here," Nell tried to reason.

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "That's not what I said."

"Yes it is!" The blood must have addled his brain more than Nell thought. "I asked you why I'm really here, and you said you don't remember."

"Exactly," Crowley said, looking satisfied. "You asked why you're here, not why I  _want_  you here. That's two different things, love."

Nell opened her mouth to ask the difference, but stopped herself. There was a strange, daring glint in Crowley's eyes that made her think she might not like the answer to that particular question. So instead she asked, frustrated, "So you're just going to keep me here until I go insane?"

"Of course not," Crowley said immediately, sounding vaguely offended. Then he added confidently, "I'll think of something."

Then he turned away and turned on the television, apparently deeming the conversation over.

Nell growled in frustration, then stormed across the room, making for the balcony door. If she couldn't get out of this damn place then at least she'd get some air that didn't smell like  _Crowley_. Maybe then she would be able to think straight and try to make sense of the situation.

She had forgotten, though, about the broken glass on the carpet, and her lack of shoes. She was reminded when she put her foot down and pain jolted up through her leg. She hissed and backed up, then stood on one foot to glare at the many small shards of glass sticking through the skin.

"God  _damn_ it."

"Already damned," Crowley said dryly, rising from the couch. He pointed at the place he'd vacated and ordered, "Sit."

Nell was sorely tempted to disobey him. She did not want to be here, and she did not want to follow Crowley's orders. But she also did not want glass in her foot, and the demon had an unyielding sort of look on his face that suggested she would not like what happened if she refused. So Nell hobbled on one foot and sank onto the couch, glowering at him.

Crowley ignored the look, disappearing into the bedroom and returning in short order with a first aid kit. He pulled out a pair of tweezers, then sat on the other end of the couch.

"Give me your foot."

Reluctantly, Nell did so. Crowley set her injured foot in his lap and peered at it, clinically assessing the damage. To Nell the position felt far too intimate, and so she looked away, turning her focus to the television. It appeared to be in the middle of a Lifetime movie, and Nell pretended to be interested in it for a good few minutes. Then Crowley removed what felt like a fairly large piece of glass, and Nell couldn't restrain a wince. The thumb of his left hand, the one holding Nell's foot still, rubbed a comforting circle on her ankle.

Nell swallowed hard. The question she hadn't dared to ask earlier, of why Crowley  _wanted_  her here, was sitting on the tip of her tongue. It sat there as Crowley wordlessly disinfected and bandaged the bottom of her foot, and then as he settled onto the opposite end of the couch more comfortably, kicking his feet up on the coffee table and watching the television, fingers still tracing circles on her ankle. It sat there as the movie ended, and Crowley tried to pretend he didn't have tears in his eyes, and then as he dozed off, hand curled possessively around Nell's foot.

Nell watched him sleep, and wondered.

* * *

The summer when Nell was 12 years old, her older brother had his wisdom teeth taken out. He had come home after the procedure still loopy from the drugs, and babbled happily through gauze-filled cheeks with nearly no filter at all. It had been quite amusing for the whole family, and her brother hadn't even embarrassed, because he couldn't actually  _remember_  babbling all his inner thoughts to them.

Watching Crowley inject human blood was not entirely dissimilar to that experience. The only other thing Nell could think to compare Crowley's behavior to was, perhaps, a man who had recently lost his job, and had not been sober since.

He lounged around in pajamas. He ate crap takeout food, watched crap television, and kept bizarre hours, napping for an hour or two at seemingly random times and staying up all night. He did all of this in a near constant haze of inebriation, shooting up human blood from donor bags stored in the suite's refrigerator five to six times a day.

His mood was volatile at pretty much all times, but particularly so in the thirty minutes or so right after he injected, when the effects of the blood were at their peak. It was at these times that Crowley most often cried, and became talkative. It was also at these times that Nell was most strongly reminded of her brother, because Crowley did not seem fully aware of what he was saying, nor did he seem to remember later that he'd said it.

Nell learned, in this way, that Crowley had once been a Scottish tailor named Fergus MacLeod. Nell mostly chose to ignore this information, because it was simply impossible for her to think of Crowley as anything  _but_  Crowley, much less something like  _Fergus_. When Crowley first revealed this to her Nell had made the mistake of asking what it was he'd sold his soul for in the first place, and Crowley had very happily told her, and informed her that he did not regret it one damn bit. Nell had been thankful for the dozenth time that she had no real ability to blush.

Nell learned other things, too. That Crowley's mother had been a witch, and that she had abandoned him. That Crowley had had a wife, who hated him, and a son, who also hated him, and that both of those things were entirely his own fault. He confessed that he had died quite literally alone in a gutter, and that he remembered nothing of the hellhounds who came to end his life, having been far too pissed to even hear them.

That Crowley was better at being a demon than he'd ever been at being a man.

Nell absorbed all of this with a curious lack of judgment. Well, not  _all_  of it. Trading your eternal soul for a few extra inches below the belt was just plain stupid no matter which way Nell looked at it. But the rest of it…

Logically, Nell knew that she should probably hate Crowley, or at the very least dislike him. He was not a good person. He had done terrible, awful things. He had kidnapped her, and kept her from leaving by threatening to do more terrible, awful things. Worst of all, he had kidnapped and tortured Kevin, and the fact that  _that_  hardly affected Nell's opinion of the demon was… troubling.

The thing was that, despite all logic, Nell  _liked_  Crowley. True, she vastly preferred him when he was sober, but she found herself oddly tolerant of him, even when he was reduced to sloppy tears watching a TV marathon of  _Harry Potter_  movies. Nell handed him tissues, and Crowley took them, and fell asleep on her shoulder. Nell felt warm, and tried not to think too hard about why.

Lola visited every so often to stock the refrigerator with bags of blood, and to shamelessly flirt with Crowley. Crowley praised her for bringing the blood, and largely ignored the flirting. This displeased Lola greatly, and she seemed to blame Nell for this, because the glares the demon shot in her direction grew more and more venomous every time she visited.

Nell didn't care what Lola thought of her one whit. She didn't fail to notice, though, when Lola stopped by to bring in the most recent bags of blood and a large pizza, how the demon's lip curled whenever Crowley wasn't looking at her.

Nell had watched the demon leave and listened to her footsteps fade down the hallway while Crowley opened the pizza box and picked up a large slice, biting into it with enjoyment that bordered on inappropriate.

"You know she hates you, right?" Nell wasn't actually sure whether Crowley hadn't noticed, or simply didn't care.

Crowley shrugged carelessly and swallowed the bite of pizza. "She's a demon. That's all she knows how to do."

His dismissal was so casual that Nell stared at him. "Then how you you know she's not… poisoning your pizza, or something?"

"Well, A, poison wouldn't work on me," Crowley said, then leaned back into the couch and took a large bite of pizza, as if to demonstrate how little that worried him. "But the much more important B, is that she wouldn't dare. Lola's a smart girl. She's seen me work my way to the top, and she saw me put Lucifer back in his box. Abaddon might sway the mindless drones with her promises of power and the blood of infants, but she's all brawn. They'll see."

"If you're so smart—you wanna tell me how to track down an angel?" Nell had had little success getting any useful information out of Crowley that would aid in her quest for revenge while he was in the 'talkative but forgetful' stage of inebriation, but he hadn't had any blood in a few hours now, and Nell was hopeful.

"Now, why would I want to do that?" Crowley's eyes were too sharp. Nell wished he could attain a happy medium between 'druggedly sobbing' and 'too smart for his own good.'

"So I don't go insane sooner rather than later?" Nell tried.

Crowley turned back to his pizza and started flipping through the channels with his free hand. "In the interest of not being smote, I've focused my attention on more on evading and killing than finding. But there are ways."

Nell's breath caught in her throat. "Like what?"

Crowley made a noise of contentment and threw down the remote. He had apparently found  _The Sound of Music_ , and was quickly absorbed. He seemed to have forgotten Nell's question, and she sighed in irritation, crossing the room to sit on the opposite side of the couch.

"Crowley," she said insistently. Crowley shushed her.

"Not during the songs."

Nell pursed her lips and waited for Julie Andrews to stop singing about hills. When the music ended she said again, "Crowley. Like what?"

"What, like what?"

Nell kicked him lightly from across the couch. Crowley 'oofed' in surprise and turned to look at her, eyebrows raised.

" _Ways to track down an angel_ ," Nell hissed at him.

Crowley regarded her seriously, gaze distant, as if in deep thought. Then he said decisively, "You could handle seven children." Turning back to the screen he muttered, "Each Winchester has to count for three, at least."

Nell kicked him again.

"Alright, alright! Stop the violence!" Crowley set down his slice of pizza, swiped at his hands with a napkin, and then rummaged in the couch cushions for something. He withdrew a long, shiny silver blade from the couch cushions and thrust it at her, handle first. "Here. Does this help satisfy your bloodlust?"

Nell took the thing hesitantly. "...I don't know. What is it?"

" _That_  is one of the few things in the universe that can kill an angel." Nell's hand tightened on the hilt of the blade automatically, and Crowley's lips turned upward at the corners. "Yes, I thought you might like that." He turned back to his pizza and said imperiously, "Don't lose it, will you? They're in short supply."

The movie continued, and Nell caressed the blade like a favored pet. She only half paid attention to the events happening on screen, thinking about the blade, and revenge, and Kevin.

"Crowley," Nell said, when the Von Trapp family was hiding from the Nazis. Crowley hummed.

"What happened to Kevin's mother?"

Crowley sighed in irritation. "She's still alive, if that's what you mean."

Nell believed him. With Kevin dead, there was no need for him to lie about it. The question was whether Dean's words to Kevin also held true. "Does she wish she wasn't?"

Crowley shot her a sour look, mouth twisting. "You've spent too much time with the Winchesters."

"Crowley," Nell said again. "The night before he died—Kevin's 20th birthday—I promised him we'd find out what happened to his mother. You know. Tell me."

Crowley looked like he'd sucked on a lemon. Eventually he admitted, "I have her locked in a storage container."

Nell couldn't suppress a shuddering breath as she took that in. Crowley rolled his eyes at her.

"Oh, don't give me that. Kevin was a prophet. She was leverage. I had to keep her somewhere."

"Kevin is dead," Nell reminded him.

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "So?"

" _So_ , why is she still locked in a storage container?"

"Because I haven't gotten around to killing the whore yet," Crowley ground out. At Nell's disapproving look he said plaintively, "Do you even know what that woman has done to me?"

"It cannot  _possibly_  compare to what you've done to her," Nell said, absolutely sure of this.

Crowley made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. "You're still so disgustingly human." He said it like an insult.

"You don't seem to find humanity so repugnant when you're injecting it."

Crowley jerked backwards a little at that. He sighed gustily again, then dug in the cushions again. This time he produced a cell phone, which he dialed while making pointed, slightly irritated eye contact with Nell.

The person on the other end of the line picked up after two rings. "What."

Crowley's gaze darkened. In a low voice he said, "Is that any way to greet your king?" The voice on the other end of the line stammered apologies, which Crowley ignored. "I want you to release the prisoner in 715 immediately."

Nell's breath caught, and her eyes widened. Crowley rolled his eyes at her again.

"Linda Tran, sire?" The demon on the line said. "If she is no longer useful to you, I would be happy to dispose—"

"Did I  _say_ she's no longer useful to me?" Crowley demanded venomously. "What I  _believe_ I said was, release her immediately."

"Y-yes. Of course, sire. I was just wondering—"

"It's not your job to wonder. Just do it." Crowley paused. "And give her some bus fare or something while you're at it. I don't want authorities snooping."

Crowley ended the call before the other demon could say another word, narrowing his eyes at Nell. "There. Free as a bird. Happy?"

"Yes, I am." And she was. She hadn't expected Crowley to do that, and she was glad he had. So she added, sincerely, "Thank you."

Crowley looked surprised to be thanked, then smugly pleased. "Good." Then, after a beat, and more softly, "You're welcome."

Nell watched as Crowley sank back into the couch cushions, eyes half-lidded and content. She opened her mouth, hesitated a moment, then decided to push her luck.

"I'd be even happier if you agreed to let me go."

Crowley's pleasant mood vanished in an instant. His right hand gripped one of Nell's legs, still partially extended from when she'd kicked him earlier, and yanked hard, knocking her on her back and pulling her halfway across the couch. Then he leaned forward, looming over her with eyes that glowed like hellfire.

"Stop. Asking. For that." Crowley gritted out. "Stop asking…" He shook his head, breath heaving. Then, holding her gaze, he asked desperately, "Why do you keep asking for that?"

"You know why," Nell breathed. She was breathing through her mouth now, trying to keep her teeth from descending. His blood had sated her like nothing else, but it had been days ago, and now he was so  _close_ …

Crowley flinched minutely. He seemed to be staring  _through_  her more than at her now as he whispered, "Why doesn't anyone stay? Why doesn't anyone ever want to just… stay?"

Nell was reminded suddenly that, at their core, demons were nothing more than tortured souls. Behind the danger and murder and bluster and everything else, each and every one was just a flayed, broken soul. Looking at Crowley now, it wasn't hard to believe it.

Crowley shuddered above her, then reached out with his hands. Nell wasn't sure what she expected—a hand in her hair again, to yank her around? A caress? A chokehold? But Crowley simply fisted his hands in the shirt of her borrowed pajamas.

"I can help you," Crowley breathed softly. "I'll help you find Gadreel. I'll hold him down while you cut his bloody wings off, if that's what you want."

Nell's mouth went dry. Of their own accord, her hands crept up and entwined themselves in Crowley's own silk pajamas. Swallowing harshly, Nell managed to say, "It is."

And then, because she thought she was finally ready to hear the answer, Nell asked, "Why do you  _want_  me here?"

Crowley stared at her uncomprehendingly for a moment, eyes shining. Then his lips were pressing against hers with more desperation than Nell had thought possible, and she welcomed it. She wound her arms around Crowley's neck as he pressed her down into the couch, pulling him closer.

It felt like a stubborn knot in Nell's shoulders had unwound, releasing a tension she hadn't known she'd been carrying. She felt light and giddy, delighting in the sensation of Crowley's stubble scraping against her skin. The weight of him pressing on top of her was as warm and satisfying as a heavy blanket on a cold day, and she never wanted it to stop. Without breaking their embrace, Nell raised one hand to caress Crowley's jaw, the other still fisted insistently in Crowley's pajama shirt.

Crowley jerked away so hard and so quickly that the shirt tore a little in Nell's grasp. She looked between the torn fabric in her hand and Crowley with an open mouth, too surprised by the sudden withdrawal to form words. Crowley's chest was heaving, and when he spoke his voice was rough as gravel.

"No."

Nell's brows drew together, hurt blending with confusion now. Uncertainly, Nell said, "But this is what you want."

Crowley swallowed hard, which reassured Nell that she was not wrong. But then he shook his head.

"Not if you still want to leave," he said roughly. He wouldn't meet her eyes, staring at the cushions past Nell's right shoulder. "Not if you don't want it. I'm not…" Crowley trailed off.

Nell sat up slowly. Crowley watched her cautiously. Nell reached out a hand to run along his jaw again, and was pleased when he closed his eyes in pleasure and did not pull away.

"I don't want to leave." And it was the truth, even though she'd asked to not half an hour ago. The horrible thirst for revenge that simmered in the back of her mind had already lessened with Crowley's offer to help her. Now that Crowley was no longer an obstacle, but an ally, Nell had no pressing urge to leave.

Crowley fixed her with a slightly annoyed look, like she'd told him something that was too good to be true and that he was insulted that she thought he would fall for it.

"Prove it," he said, like he was calling her bluff. He pulled away from Nell's hand and strode to the door to the suite, then threw it wide open. Crowley stared at her in challenge. "If you want to go, then go. I won't try to stop you."

Nell rose from the couch and approached the door, slowly. With every step Crowley seemed to deflate further, shoulders hunching and jaw tensing, but he made no move to close the door. He had been telling the truth. If Nell left right now, he wouldn't stop her.

Nell reached the door. Crowley stood rigid as she reached for the handle.

Nell shut the door. Crowley stared. This time, it looked as if Nell had said something too good to be true, and he was thinking about believing it despite his better judgment.

"I appreciate the gesture," Nell said, "but I'm not going anywhere."

Nell waited for Crowley to move. He didn't. He just stood there, still staring at Nell as if she were a mirage and would disappear any moment.

Nell got tired of waiting. She seized Crowley by the collar of his pajamas again and pushed him hard up against the closed door. Crowley hit it with a small  _oof_  of surprise, eyes going wide—and then falling shut when Nell captured his lips with hers once more. Crowley hummed into the kiss, a low, contented noise that Nell felt all the way to her toes.

She drank in the sound, and the smell of him, and the feeling of his warm body pressed against hers, the rough stubble scraping against her cheek. She drank it all in as eagerly as she had drank in the demon's blood. She  _wanted_  to drink him, to  _consume_  him, in every possible sense. She pressed desperately closer, and Crowley allowed it.

He was more compliant than Nell had anticipated. Not that she had spent much time considering being in this situation previously, but if she had, she would have thought Crowley would be dominant. Domineering, even. He liked to be powerful, he liked to be in charge—he had made himself a  _king_ , after all. But as much as he welcomed Nell's attentions, opening his mouth and tangling his tongue with hers and making  _delicious_  noises that drove Nell crazy, he did not touch her back. His hands hung loose by his side.

That drove her more crazy than anything.

Nell tore away from their kiss with a gasp. Crowley looked half dazed, half smug, his lips curling up at the corners ever-so-slightly. Nell wanted to kiss the expression away, but more than that she wanted Crowley to  _touch her_.

"Are you just going to stand there?" Nell asked, half impatient, half disbelieving. Crowley blinked, and his eyes cleared a little.

"Perhaps," he said. Nell drew backward a little in surprise, and Crowley followed her—not leaning in, but maintaining the close distance between them. Their breath mingled, and into the shared inches Crowley said lowly, "Tell me what you want."

Nell sucked in a breath and met the demon's eyes, and changed her mind. Crowley  _was_  dominant. He had never not been.

Nell swallowed. Crowley's eyes darted down to follow the movement, then returned to meet hers. Nell struggled to form words under the intensity of the gaze. Finally she managed to speak softly.

"I want you to touch me."

Crowley's left hand wrapped firmly around Nell's waist, pulling her closer. His right hand came up to caress her cheek and jaw. Nell's eyes fluttered at the touch.

"Is that all?"

Nell's eyes shot open again. Crowley looked  _amused_. Nell glared at him, and his smug little smile widened a little.

"No," Nell said, in a tone that said,  _obviously, you asshole_. "I want you to kiss me."

Crowley complied, and it was wonderful. His right hand tangled in Nell's curls again, tilting her head back to give him better access, tongue swiping across her lips and then into her mouth.  _God,_ the things he did with his tongue…

Crowley moved away from Nell's lips, kissing a line along her jaw and stopping at the base of her left ear. Nell shuddered as he breathed again, "Is that all?"

"No." Nell couldn't muster a glare this time. She was too desperate, and she no longer cared what Crowley thought of that. She clutched Crowley by his shoulders and pushed him away so that she could look him in the eyes. "I want  _you_.  _Please._ "

Those were the magic words, it seemed. Nell caught a glimpse of triumph and satisfaction and just a hint of something softer, and then she had to close her eyes again because Crowley was kissing her, pushing away from the door and hoisting her legs around his waist, supporting Nell's weight like it was nothing. He continued to kiss her and hold her and caress her even as he took long-legged strides across the suite and into the bedroom, displaying a sense of direction and skill for multi-tasking that could only be supernatural.

They reached the bedroom. Crowley dropped Nell on her back on the bed, and then stood at the foot of it, staring at her with an expression Nell had never seen before. If she had to describe it, she would have called it an odd mix between hunger and  _reverence_.

Looking up at Crowley from the bed, Nell found she felt much the same. She  _thirsted_  for Crowley, just as badly as she thirsted for blood. The sight of him standing above her, watching her, appreciating her,  _wanting_  her, made her mouth go dry. If she had a beating heart, it would be hammering at the look of him.

Nell did not have a beating heart—but Crowley did, and Nell had never been more glad for her hypersensitive hearing than when she realized she could hear just how much she affected Crowley by listening to the rapid thumping of his heart.

She rose to her knees on the bed and began pulling at the buttons on Crowley's pajama top. The clothing was loose—it could have been pulled over Crowley's head in one motion, or else Nell could have shredded it easily with her bare hands. But she didn't want to. She took her time, undoing each button individually and taking in each inch of exposed flesh with wide, eager eyes. When the last button was undone, Nell pushed the fabric aside and ran her hands up and down Crowley's chest.

It was easy to believe at that moment that Crowley was human. His heart beating rapidly as Nell skimmed her hands from his hip bones, over a slightly protruding stomach and following a line of sparse hairs up from his navel to his chest and two dark nipples, and then up to strong, leanly muscled shoulders. It wasn't a perfect chest, and Nell was glad for it. The imperfections made Crowley seem so much more  _real_ , so much more  _human_.

Nell pressed a soft kiss to Crowley's ribcage, just over where his heart was still hammering, then reached for the drawstring on his pants. Crowley's hands shot out and stopped them, and Nell looked up at him again.

Crowley's expression was, for a brief second, somehow more naked and vulnerable than his exposed chest. He quickly schooled it, lips curving back into that infuriatingly smug smile as he nodded at Nell's pajama top and said roughly, "Quid pro quo."

Nell did not bother undoing the buttons of her own top. She yanked the cloth over her head in a quick motion and tossed it, not caring where the fabric landed. It did not occur to her to be self-conscious, even though she knew for a fact that Crowley had slept with the demon Lola, who was curvier and sexier, with her clingy clothes and long hair and unabashed flirtation. All that mattered was that Crowley had never, ever looked at Lola the way he was currently looking at her.

Nell's shirt landed somewhere, and she straightened, still on her knees on the bed, breasts bared. She raised her eyebrows at Crowley, asking without words,  _Now can I take your pants off?_

"So eager," Crowley teased, though he stepped closer with a small nod of assent. Nell ignored the jab, fingers making quick work of the knot. Silken fabric slipped down Crowley's hips and onto the floor.

Nell stared in awe, and reconsidered her previous opinion on bargaining one's soul for extra inches and the merits thereof. Nell extended a hand toward him, and Crowley caught it again, tutting.

"As I said." Crowley pushed Nell backward on the bed and came to kneel over her, completely naked and frustratingly out of reach. "Quid pro quo."

Crowley pulled off Nell's pants. His eyebrows raised a bit upon seeing that she wore nothing underneath, although he shouldn't have been surprised. She had been forced to borrow  _his_  clothes, after all. She wasn't about to borrow his underwear, and she'd rather wear nothing at all than keep re-using the same panties she'd arrived in every day.

Crowley tossed the pants away. He did not so much crawl over her then so much as  _prowl_ , the movement swift and fluid with a grace that reminded Nell that, contrary to her earlier thoughts, Crowley was definitely  _not_  human. The look on his face was further confirmation that Crowley was a  _demon_ , and that he was now gleefully indulging in the sin of  _lust_.

Nell reached for Crowley again, sure that  _quid pro quo_  could no longer get in her way in the absence of clothes. When Crowley pinned her wrists to the bed, preventing her from touching him  _again_ , she groaned in frustration.

She could have pulled free. Crowley was holding her firmly, but not so firmly that she wouldn't be able to break his grip if she wanted. Besides that, Nell was certain Crowley would release her the second she showed any real objection to being restrained.

But Nell did not object. She liked the press of Crowley's weight pinning her to the bed, and the fire in Crowley's eyes. She wanted to touch him desperately, but more than that she wanted to see what Crowley would do. She wanted to know precisely how Crowley was going to dominate her, if she let him.

"Not yet," Crowley's voice rumbled in her ear. Then his teeth nipped at it, and Nell's breath hitched. She hadn't known she would like that, until he did it and pleasure curled in her stomach.

"What was it you wanted, again?" Crowley asked lightly. His right hand left her wrist, or at least seemed to. Nell could see and feel his hand trailing down her neck and breast, skimming the skin of her ribs and down to her hip, but when she tried to move her ostensibly-free left hand, she found she couldn't. Some unseen force was holding it down.

 _Demon_ , Nell remembered, and then thought that perhaps she shouldn't find the fact that Crowley was holding her down on the bed with demon magic so damn sexy.

"You want me to touch you?" Crowley's hand moved from hovering over her hip to hovering over her upper thighs, jus close enough that Nell could feel the heat of his hand. Crowley met her eyes with that smug, mischievous smile, waiting for an answer.

Nell spread her legs and hissed, " _Yes_."

Crowley smiled broadly, lines forming at the corners of his mouth and eyes as he leaned closer, but still did not touch. "I seem to recall a ' _please'_."

Nell would tell Crowley just about anything at that point so long as he touched her. " _Please_. Please, touch me."

He did, thumbs and fingers quick and rough at first, as if making up for lost time. Nell mewled in surprise and pleasure, arching up into Crowley's hand as much as she was able. Crowley hummed again, apparently pleased at the reaction. Nell no longer cared about the self-satisfied look on his face. All she cared about was that he'd slipped two fingers inside her, thrusting slowly, while his thumb rubbed and made circles that made Nell's body shudder.

At some point Crowley's left hand swept down to caress Nell's breasts. She couldn't tell any longer if she was still restrained by magic, or if the sensations Crowley's fingers were sending up through her core had simply rendered her unable to move. It was hard to think. It had been so long since she'd been with anyone, so long since anyone else had touched her like this…

Crowley's fingers twisted perfectly, and Nell gasped. He repeated the motion, smiling wickedly. Nell caught a flash of his tongue behind his teeth that made her legs shake.

"You want me to kiss you?"

He was teasing her again. Nell was too desperate to play coy. " _Please._ "

He kissed her, thoroughly. It was the sort of powerful, dominating kiss she'd expected of him, and Nell moaned into his mouth as Crowley's tongue thrust into her with the same rhythm as his fingers. After a few minutes of this Crowley pulled away, trailing stubble-rough kisses down her neck, down her chest, over her hips, and then—

Nell moaned as Crowley's tongue joined his fingers. It wasn't just the press of wet tongue that did it. It was also the heat of Crowley's skin and breath, and the scratch of that dark stubble against the most sensitive part of her, all combined with the thrusting, thrusting—

"Crowley," Nell gasped his name, less to get his attention and more like a prayer, the same way she might have once gasped,  _Oh God_. It didn't seem appropriate to call out to the divine when a demon's face was buried between her thighs.

Crowley glanced up at her, faux-innocent, still sucking and licking, and did that god-forsaken hum again. The breath and vibration combined with the unrelenting thrust of Crowley's fingers and the burning pride and satisfaction in his eyes undid her.

Nell's body pulled taut like a string for a second, then shook. A sort of desperate, wailing keen escaped Nell's lips without her permission, and then turned to short whimpers as Crowley continued his ministrations, not letting up despite her orgasm.

Nell had not thought that the pleasure could get any better than when her orgasm had first crashed over her, but then Crowley's fingers and tongue kept spurring her on, extending and heightening the pleasure far beyond what Nell had thought possible. It  _wasn't_ possible, either, not really, because soon the sensations were all too much, the swiping of tongue and the scrape of stubble and the plunge of fingers

It was all too much.

"Stop," Nell breathed raggedly. Her hands were still held fast over her head, but she wriggled her hips as best she could to dislodge the demon's hands and mouth, the cause of the deliciously terrible pleasure-pain wracking her body. "Crowley, please, stop."

Crowley stopped. He withdrew his fingers and raised his head, propping himself up on his arms above her. His chin glistened wetly, and he licked his lips sinfully before speaking.

"Something the matter?" He asked, in a tone that said he knew perfectly well what was the matter, and that he was not the least bit sorry about it.

Nell was aching and her chest was heaving. Her legs still shook with small tremors. But she paid little attention to any of this. She could only focus on the muscled line of Crowley's shoulders as he held himself above her, the shine of Crowley's saliva and her own fluids drying on his jaw, the bright, bright eyes and devilish smile.

"I want to touch you."

Crowley's expression did not change, but Nell was certain she heard his heartbeat accelerate. He said, "Who's stopping you?"

And then Nell's hands were free, and she was touching him, first reaching up to caress his face, then trailing her hands down his neck and across his broad shoulders. The sensation of touching his bare skin was all the more satisfying now, after having spent long, torturous minutes being denied it. She pulled Crowley close and captured his lips again, tasting herself on his tongue. Her right hand trailed down his chest, skimming across his stomach, and then between his thighs, to press against the firm, velvety skin of his cock.

It really was impressive. The warmth and heat and weight of it in her palm was deeply satisfying, as was the approving groan Crowley released when Nell stroked it. She arced up against Crowley and hoped that he did not intend to extend his little game of  _quid pro quo_  to oral sex, because at her current level of hunger Nell was not keen to put so sensitive a part of Crowley's anatomy so close to her teeth when it was so full of blood.

Crowley must have had the same thought, or else he was as eager as she was, because he ground down against her with equal enthusiasm. Then he pulled back again, pressing quick, clever fingers insider her again. Nell bucked and moaned at the abrupt touch, and when she looked at Crowley again he was watching her with keen eyes and using the moisture on his fingers to slicken his cock.

Nell didn't think she'd ever seen anything more erotic in her life than watching Crowley stroke himself, fingers wet from being inside her.

Finally Crowley's fingers stilled, and he leaned forward to hover over Nell, but did not close the distance. The teasing smile from earlier was gone now, replaced with the same sort of naked emotion Crowley had displayed while holding the door open.

Nell reached up to caress Crowley's face again, and held his eyes as she repeated softly, "I want you."

Crowley sank into her. Nell desperately wanted to watch his face as he did this, but she couldn't help closing her eyes. It had been more than a year since she'd done this with anyone, and Crowley was so much bigger than anyone else she'd ever had that it overwhelmed her for a moment. She felt Crowley's hips meet hers, connecting them as deeply as possible, and then felt him pull back, starting to move within her.

Nell opened her eyes again. Crowley was watching her, pupils large and mouth parted in something like wonderous fascination.

Nell felt much the same.

She had never quite gotten over how bizarre the mechanics of penetrative sex were—putting a part of yourself  _inside_  of another person, or having another person  _inside_  you. It was so odd, and intimate in the most literal sense. How could anything be more so, than being  _inside_  someone else?

It was for this reason that Nell had not lost her virginity until she was twenty years old. She had had no compunctions about having sex with someone she didn't love, but to have sex with someone that she did not like or trust was another matter. She wasn't about to let just anyone  _inside_  her. She had finally slept with a guy she liked well enough after just one date, to satisfy her curiosity and desire and get the damn thing over with already, and during and afterward she had still been a little thrown by just how odd the whole process was.

And now Crowley was inside her, watching her, moving within her, and it was  _intimate_. More intimate than any sex Nell had ever experienced before. The heat and press of Crowley's skin against hers, the mingling of their breaths, the thrusting of both their hips as they strove to come even closer together, to generate more friction between them, was wholly new. With the sense of wonder and fullness and euphoria Nell was experiencing, it was almost like losing her virginity all over again. And though Nell had never been a romantic about sex, or believed that it equated with love, or put any stock whatsoever in the notion of  _soul mates_ , as Crowley rocked into her and she gasped against his lips, she couldn't help feeling that some part of them had intertwined irrevocably—beyond the physical. Soul-deep.

Nell's body was still hyper-sensitive from Crowley's earlier attentions, and now, as he thrust himself deep into her with every movement of his hips, she could not help the needy pants and near-whines that fell from her mouth. Nell gripped Crowley's neck and shoulders and placed desperate kisses along his jaw and ground her own hips down against him, meeting each thrust with equal force. She needed more, just a little more—she was so  _close…_

" _Please_." Nell gasped the word against Crowley's jaw, and into his ear, kissing and nipping and begging, " _Please_ , Crowley,  _please_."

Crowley's left hand seized her hip and changed the angle ever-so-slightly. He thrust once, and Nell saw stars.

Begging was impossible then. Nell's body arced against Crowley's, mouth open in a silent cry, and then curled around him as Crowley kept going. The continued movement prolonged her climax, and then drove her higher, pleasure building once again to heights that should not have been possible. If it kept on like this, Nell thought, she would go mad. Crowley would be the first person in the world to literally fuck someone's brains out.

Keening, whimpering, clutching, Nell said again, " _Please._ "

And Crowley's hand on her hip tightened, and he thrust once, twice, a third time, and then stilled.

For a long minute neither of them moved, exhausted by the exertion and lost in a post-coital daze. Eventually Crowley pulled back just enough to separate their bodies, and then immediately pulled Nell close again, tucking her face into his neck and his own into her hair. He held her tightly, firmly, as if he was determined to keep her close, but genuinely concerned that Nell might pull away.

Nell wasn't usually one for cuddling after sex, but this was different.  _Everything_ seemed to be different, when it came to Crowley. Nell pressed soft kisses to Crowley's neck—not the lingering, sexual touches from minutes ago, but light, affectionate, reassuring brushes of lips.

Lips still brushing his skin, Nell repeated in a whisper, "I'm not going anywhere."

Crowley's arms tightened around her briefly, and then the demon relaxed with a small sigh. He nuzzled his face into Nell's hair, and Nell stayed tucked against him, content to lie in his arms for as long as he wanted her there. And when Crowley eventually drifted off into a contented sleep, holding her close and breathing softly into her ear, Nell stayed, and listened to his heartbeat, and fell into a peaceful trance that was almost like dreaming.

* * *

"Good evening, my king," Lola greeted sweetly the next time she visited the suite. "I brought you a little something."

'A little something,' it turned out, was a live human man. Lola dragged him in, bound and gagged with panic shining in his eyes. Nell wondered how the hell the demon had managed to get him through the hotel unnoticed.

"Lola. You shouldn't have." Nell wasn't entirely sure from Crowley's tone whether that was meant to be a compliment or a reprimand. Lola chose to take it as the former.

"I thought you might like it better fresh from the tap," Lola said helpfully. "You could even share it with your… guest." Lola said tis last word disdainfully. Nell suspected the demon would have much preferred to use the word  _whore_ , and was actually a little impressed with her restraint.

"How thoughtful of you," Crowley said as Lola hung the whimpering, panicking man by his wrists in the coat closet near the door. Lola preened. "Good work. You're dismissed."

Lola scowled, face darkening dangerously, then stormed out of the suite. Nell stared at the man hanging in the closet and watched the tears stream down his cheeks with a strange detachment.

Nell found her own lack of sympathy for the man more unsettling than the fact that he was tied up in a closet and, most likely, going to die of blood loss within the next few days. It wasn't that she didn't care  _at all_ , but she did care far less than she should have. What Nell should have felt was horror and revulsion. What she  _actually_  felt was more like the mild disapproval she reserved for people who recklessly jaywalked, or cut other people off in traffic.

"You hungry?" Crowley asked lightly.

Nell did not want to admit it, but she was. It had been days since she'd first drank Crowley's blood, and she had not dared to drink any of the blood Crowley reserved for shooting up—not because she thought he would mind, but because she felt it would be crossing a line.

She had not, so far, consumed any human's blood without their consent. Pig's blood, yes, and Dean's blood, freely offered. And then Crowley's blood, because she couldn't help herself. But stealing donated blood, or worse, drinking from a live, unwilling person… that was different.

But Nell  _was_  hungry, and so, reluctantly, she nodded.

Crowley stepped forward and shut the door to the closet. Nell stared at him in confusion as he crossed to sit on the couch.

"What?" Crowley asked, raising an eyebrow as he gestured for her to join him. "Did you want an audience?"

He tilted his head to expose his neck, eyes fixed on Nell and burning hot as coals. Nell swallowed.

Before, it had been out of her control. She had been hungry, and Crowley had been close, and he had forced her hand. But now, she had a choice. She could drink from Crowley, or from the man in the closet. There might even still be donated blood in the fridge. If she asked, Crowley might even command Lola to bring pig's blood.

But Nell wouldn't ask.

She was done pretending to be human. Done drinking pig's blood out of a cup, done hiding her teeth behind her hand, done feeling ashamed of what she was. She  _wanted_  to use her teeth. She wanted to sink them into a warm neck and drink the hot, hot blood that seeped out, and feel the life pouring into her with every beat of the heart.

And she wanted the neck to be Crowley's.

Nell crossed the room in a second. In the next second she had straddled him, and then her teeth were sinking into his neck. They both moaned in unison.

" _Fuck_ , Nell." Crowley clutched at her shirt, then her shoulders, but once again he was only trying to pull her closer, not pull her away. Nell hummed contentedly with her mouth still latched to his throat, and Crowley shuddered.

It was almost better than the last time. Before, she'd been starving and overwhelmed, overcome by hunger and need, gulping down Crowley's blood as fast as she could. There was no rush now, and it was not her first taste after weeks and weeks of slimy, lukewarm animal blood. She could take her time, and she did. She lapped up his blood slowly, savoring each mouthful for long moments, like fine wine.

Nell pulled away after long minutes, feeling tipsy, on the edge of drunk. Crowley kissed the last drops his own blood from her lips and lowered her down so she could lie on the couch in her post-meal bliss. Crowley himself rose and made his way to the closet. Nell did not bother to open her eyes as Crowley drew blood from the man.

"Thanks, mate," Crowley said softly, then added before closing the door, "it's nothing personal."

Crowley injected the blood in the kitchenette and then returned to the couch. He and Nell lay there together for hours, limbs entwined, two blood addicts in in a blissful daze. Neither of them paid any further mind to the muffled cries that came from the closet.

Crowley drifted to sleep at some point. It was only because of the blood that he did this, Nell had learned. Demons had no need or desire to sleep. But with so much human blood running through his veins, Crowley toed the line of humanity, and so he slept, and even dreamed.

Nell watched him do this for hours, and was only a little disgusted with herself.

The delight she took in every little thing Crowley did was so intense it bordered on ridiculous. Watching the demon sigh in his sleep brought on a warm, fluttery, butterflies-in-the-stomach feeling that Nell hadn't felt in years. It was almost like going through puberty all over again, and Crowley was her first crush.

It had to be a vampire thing. She had probably imprinted on Crowley the same way she had with Kevin and the Winchesters. Or his blood was affecting her somehow, some sort of unknown side effect that arose naturally when vampires drink demon blood, but that no one had discovered because no vampires had ever  _managed_ to drink demon blood. Or otherwise it was just because Nell had been alone for far too long, and couldn't resist the appeal of a warm body whose heart could race and whose blood she could spill, but who Nell couldn't truly kill no matter how much blood she drank.

It was one of those things, Nell was sure. It had to be, because the only other explanation was that Nell was genuinely and deeply in love with a demon.

In the end, it didn't really matter where the feelings came from. All that mattered was that they were real, and they felt  _good_  in a way that Nell had never experienced.

So she stayed tangled together with her demon, holding him, tracing light circles on his back and shoulders, pressing soft kisses to his lips and face and neck and accepting slow, lazy kisses in return. They passed a whole day that way, only breaking apart once every few hours for Crowley to roll of the couch and inject more blood. The first two times he did this Nell simply watched in silent curiosity, but the third time she had to ask.

"Why do you do it?" Nell nodded at the syringe Crowley had just dropped on the coffee table. "You can't possibly get the same thing out of it that I do."

Crowley looked thoughtful as he lay back down and pulled Nell back into his arms. His eyes, Nell noted with faint disapproval, looked bloodshot. Finally Crowley asked, almost sleepily, "What do you feel when you think about Gadreel killing Kevin?"

Nell tensed immediately. Crowley's arms squeezed around her once, briefly, and with effort she forced herself to relax. "Rage," she said shortly.

"What else?" Crowley asked softly, patiently.

Nell had to think about it. "Hurt. Loss. Impatience… But none of that holds a candle to the rage."

Crowley nodded in understanding, eyes falling half-shut. "That feeling," he said roughly, "that  _rage_ … that's what it is, to be a demon. Pain and anger, forever."

Nell remembered what Crowley had said when she'd pointed out that Lola hated him:  _She's a demon. That's all she knows how to do._

But Crowley wasn't like that. Not now, anyway. "But it's not like that, on the blood?"

"No." Crowley swallowed, eyes closing. He stretched a little, body arcing against Nell's before he relaxed bonelessly back into the couch again. "No, on the blood I feel… everything."

* * *

The man in the closet's heart was beginning to stutter and slow. The sun had set, and Nell wasn't interested in listening to the man's final moments, so she stepped out onto the suite's balcony. She breathed in fresh air, and admired the city lights, and watched the cars and people go by.

Eventually Crowley joined her. He leaned on the balcony railing next to Nell, close enough where she could feel his body heat. "Enjoying the view?"

"Where are we, anyway?" Nell had never asked before, and had been unable to identify the place from what she could see of the city's skyline.

"Detroit."

Nell nodded, filing that information away. "Any particular reason for that?"

Crowley shrugged carelessly. "It's not hell."

Nell looked at him. For all that he had poured his heart out to her, and for all the time that he had spent there, Crowley had spoken very little about Hell. What little Nell knew about the place was an amalgam of her Catholic upbringing and the tidbits that had been revealed in Carver Edlund's book.

So she asked, "What's it like?"

"Hell?" Crowley repeated, then shrugged again. "It's hell."

Nell huffed. "Thanks. That answers all my questions."

Crowley looked at Nell for a moment, then back at the lights of Detroit, lips twisting. "Hell is…  _messy_. I've tried to improve it, make it better, but every time I turn my back someone's knocking down my tower and everything is anarchy again—Abaddon being only the most recent, and the biggest pain in my arse."

Nell hummed sympathetically. Then, curious, asked, "Why do you bother to keep building it back up, then?"

"I'm Crowley," he said, a little incredulously. "I don't lose."

Nell accepted that with a shrug. For a few minutes she simply watched the people pass on the street below, utterly unaware that they were being watched by a demon and a vampire. Then she asked, "Have you made deals with anybody I'd know about?"

Crowley smile made Nell's stomach do a little flip. "You know Robert Johnson, of course."

"Of course," Nell agreed.

Crowley ticked off a few more recognizable names on his fingers. "Let's see… Brian Jones. Sid Vicious. Tila Tequila… more than one Kardashian."

"And you kissed them all?" Nell wasn't sure how she felt about kissing a mouth that had locked lips with multiple Kardashians.

"Why?" Crowley asked, smiling roguishly with a teasing glint in his eyes. "Are you jealous?"

"Maybe I am." Nell shot Crowley her own teasing smile. "Of you, that is—for getting to kiss Tila Tequila."

"I could probably arrange it, if it means that much to you," Crowley offered helpfully, not fooled in the slightest by her teasing. Nell didn't doubt that he probably could.

"You'd actually enjoy that, wouldn't you?" Crowley seemed the type to like to watch. But then, judging by the contents of that one drawer in the bedroom, he seemed the type to like just about everything.

Crowley flashed her a satisfied, shark-like smile. "Not as much as I enjoy this."

He pressed her up against the railing and kissed her. Behind them, the lights of the city twinkled. In the hotel closet, the nameless man breathed his last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who is reviewing! I love hearing what you all have to say :) Please note that this should be the longest chapter of the whole fic—I just couldn't find a good place to cut it. Also, I hope you guys appreciated the sex scene, because it was THE WORST to write. It's why this chapter wasn't up yesterday.


	11. Chapter 11

Nell smelled like chlorine when she returned to the hotel room. It filled her nose, and she was thinking longingly of showering it all off as she opened the door. It was why she didn't realize anything was wrong inside the suite until she entered.

She had been suspicious, naturally, when Crowley had too-casually mentioned that the hotel and pool and a hot tub on the lower levels, and suggested that Nell go busy herself there while he 'took care of some business'. He even produced a swimsuit from who knew where. All Nell knew was that Crowley had received some sort of alert on his phone in the early morning, and then spent the next few hours in a thoughtful, narrow-eyed silence, flipping a coin from finger to finger as if in a meditative trance. The behavior was odd enough that Nell was glad to leave the suite and escape the tense mood. In any case, she had no desire to hang around for whatever 'business' Crowley needed to attend to.

So Nell had swam laps, and floated, and then spent nearly an hour soaking in the hot tub, utterly ignoring the warning signs to limit time in the hot tub to no more than 30 minutes. That, Nell knew, was a warning for the health and safety of  _humans_. She was in no danger of pruning, let alone overheating, and the hot water and bubbles were incredibly soothing. She took her time, and after nearly two hours had passed, she finally made her way back upstairs. She figured Crowley would have finished whatever it was he wanted her gone for, otherwise he'd have come up with some other, longer-lasting diversion.

Nell entered the suite, shut the door behind herself with a click, and opened her mouth to declare her intention to shower off the smell of chlorine—but then said nothing, mouthing hanging wordlessly as she took in the scene before her.

The room was in utter disarray. Shopping bags sat on the counter of the kitchenette. Next to those sat a bag of human blood, the sort Lola delivered on occasion. Lola herself was crumpled on the floor—or at least, her body was.

Nell had never seen a dead body before outside of the context of a funeral. Then, she could almost pretend that the deceased were simply sleeping. True, they were pale and motionless in death, but between the mortician's make-up and dressing the body in their Sunday finest, the fact that they were dead didn't seem so obvious, or so gruesome.

Lola's body was not like that. She was sprawled, half on her back, half on her side, like she'd fallen, or been scrambling backwards when it happened. Her face was still contorted in a vicious snarl, equal parts hatred, derision, and fear. Her dark eyes were still wide open, but blank, and utterly devoid of life. And in her chest, a gaping, slightly blackened hole.

Crowley sat in an armchair, eyes red, with the angel blade he'd used to kill her still grasped loosely in his fingers.

Nell closed her mouth, swallowed, and tried to put her thoughts in order. She opened her mouth again, not entirely sure what would come out.

"...Are you okay?" Crowley turned to look at her slowly, then seemed to seriously consider the question.

"No," he decided finally. "No, I don't think I am."

Nell stepped further into the room and took a seat in the other armchair, positioning herself so she wouldn't have to feel the weight of Lola's dead, unseeing eyes. "What happened?"

Crowley shot a brief, hateful glance toward Lola's corpse, then slumped in what appeared to be exhaustion. "She was reporting on me to Abaddon." Nell couldn't say she was surprised, but decided not to say so. In a whisper, Crowley added, almost reluctantly, "I've called the Winchesters."

That, Nell did find surprising. "Why now?"

Crowley closed his eyes briefly, as if in pain. When he opened them, he sat a little straighter, and looked determined. "Because, now that I know that I can't trust any of my demons, those two are my only allies in killing the bitch. And besides, I'm close to finding the blade, anyway."

Nell didn't know what that meant, and didn't ask in favor of her more pressing question. "Do they know I'm here?"

"Yes." He grimaced. "They were quite cross about it, as I'm sure you'd expect."

Nell was pretty sure 'quite cross' would be an understatement. Resigned, she asked, "How soon will they get here?"

"A few hours." Crowley leaned forward and set the angel blade down on the coffee table with a soft  _thunk_. Then he beckoned her closer, and tilted his head in invitation, eyes warm and glowing like coals. "We may not get another chance for a while."

Nell shook her head and stood. She saw something that might have been hurt or disappointment flicker on his face before she said, "I'm not doing that where she can watch us." Nell jerked her head in the direction of Lola's corpse, then turned to walk into the bedroom. Behind her, she heard Crowley rise and follow.

She shut the door behind him with a sharp snap, eyeing him hungrily as he turned to look at her. Her teeth were already aching… as were other places.

"And not your neck," she decided then, striding forward and into Crowley's personal space. He did not retreat an inch, gazing down at her with burning eyes. "They'll be angry enough already. No need to provoke them with fresh bite marks."

"Oh?" Crowley's voice was so soft and deep that Nell's knees actually wobbled. "And where do you suggest?"

"I understand there's a major artery in the upper thigh."

The fire in Crowley's eyes flared.

After, Nell thought about cleaning up the suite. It was an absolute mess—takeout containers, syringes, two dead bodies—but in the end, she figured there was no point trying to hide it all. Besides, the state of the room was a pretty good reflection of the situation at large.

Instead, she left Crowley to inject what was likely that last human blood he'd have for a long time while she showered off the chlorine and sex and dressed in the clothes she'd arrived in. Dead bodies, she could explain. Her lounging around in silk pajamas she'd borrowed from Crowley, less so.

Her hair was still damp when she heard the familiar engine of the Impala approaching the hotel. She did not rush, drying the curls patiently until they bounced, completely dry, and she could hear heavy boots walking down the hall. Then she moved to stand in the doorway to the bedroom, and waited.

One of the Winchesters hammered on the door. Crowley did not rise from the couch to get the door, instead opening it with a casual flick of the wrist. It was the first actual demonstration Nell had seen of his demonic powers, and Nell felt a bizarre twist of arousal curl in her gut at the offhanded display.

The Winchesters stormed in, already looking pissed. Nell half-retreated behind the doorway, trying to choke back the bone-deep  _unease_  she felt at being so close to Dean, especially when he looked so ready to deck someone.

"Okay, Crowley, what the hell is going on?" Dean barked it like a commander, eyes fixed on Crowley. Sam's eyes darted around the room, taking everything in with wide eyes, then finally landed on Nell.

"Nell!" Sam rushed over, and to Nell's surprise he actually grabbed her by the shoulders, holding her out in front of him and seemingly scanning her for injuries as he asked, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Nell told him. Then, when Sam didn't stop staring at her, repeated more earnestly, "Seriously, Sam. I'm fine."

"We found sulfur by your car outside the butcher shop," Sam said quietly, voice tight. "When we didn't hear from Crowley…"

He trailed off, and Nell realized with a jolt that the Winchesters must have suspected that she was dead. Nell patted Sam's arm once and assured him gently, "I'm okay."

Dean had watched all of this with a scowl, and now turned his glare on Crowley. "What the hell did you take her for? Seriously, Crowley, I don't see your end game here. Unless you want to get your ass beat."

Crowley smacked his lips, seemingly choosing his words.

"You ever get blackout drunk and order something on Amazon, then forget you ordered it?"

Dean stared at him. Nell sighed gustily and pinched the bridge of her nose.

"You're not serious," Dean said flatly. Then, at Crowley's guileless look, turned to Nell in disbelief. "Is he serious?"

"It's… been an interesting few weeks."

Dean shook his head. "I can't believe this… so, what, you've been sitting around shooting up human blood? Getting high when you should've been looking for the blade?" It was the second mention of 'the blade.' Nell would have to ask someone to explain it to her when they were done having their inevitable row.

"Look at you. You're a mess," Dean sounded half disgusted, half disappointed. He wasn't wrong, either. Crowley had shot up the last of his blood supply a few hours ago, and he was already starting to show signs of drug-like withdrawal. His skin was pale and covered in a sheen of sweat, and his eyes were bloodshot. "You know, we were counting on you. You let us down."

"Your slimy followers were counting on you to kill Abaddon, and you let them down," Sam said, joining in on Dean's lecture. "You're pathetic."

Crowley's eyebrows shot up in disbelief. "What is this? An intervention?"

"You need to focus, Crowley," Sam pressed. Crowley's eyes flickered from one brother to the other, gaze glassy. "Get a grip!"

"What, you just gonna let Hell go to Hell?" Dean added, unrelenting. Crowley cracked.

"You don't know what it's like to be human!"

Silence in the suite following that desperate pronouncement, Sam and Dean in shock, and Crowley in a half-embarrassed, half-defiant daze. Nell cleared her throat pointedly. Crowley's gaze sharpened a little as he glanced at her, then quickly away. His throat bobbed in a loud swallow.

"Lola used me," he said roughly. "She reported everything I did back to Abaddon."

Sam and Dean both stiffened. Carefully, dangerously, Sam said, "Crowley… Did you tell her about the first blade?"

Crowley swallowed again, then shrugged minutely. "I don't know. Things get a trifle…  _blurry_ , when I'm medicated."

"Great," Sam said bitterly, turning to look at Dean. "If he told Lola, she  _definitely_ told Abaddon."

"Which means that Abaddon's in the hunt for this thing, too," Dean finished grimly. "Alright, you know what? This crap ends now. You're cut off, okay? Kicking it. Cold turkey."

They were on the road within the hour, and Nell almost envied Crowley his position in the trunk. True, it was dark and stuffy and uncomfortable, but it was also farther away from Dean, and Nell wanted to be as far away from him as possible. She had only reluctantly climbed into the back seat of the Impala, and even then on Sam's side. Now she sat pressed against the back passenger side door, as if she could melt through it to escape the oppressive, deadly aura Dean gave off.

Sam kept craning his head over his shoulder to check on her, and after ten minutes of driving he finally asked, "Are you sure you're okay?"

Nell's lips tightened as she wondered how to answer the question. Dean's hands tightened on the wheel. He didn't glance at either her or Sam as he said, "It's me, isn't it?"

"Yes," Nell agreed, glad she didn't have to be the one to say it.

"What?" Sam jerked his head to look at Dean, clearly confused. "What do you mean? What are you guys talking about?"

"I think it's the Mark," Dean confessed quietly. He waited a long moment, like he might leave it at that, but under the weight of his brother's unblinking stare he continued, reluctantly, "Back when I first came back to the bunker with it, it was like Nell could sense it. Wouldn't let me get within five feet of her."

A short beat of disbelieving silence. Then, "And you didn't think that would have been good to mention  _before_?" Sam said, voice rising. "Like when she went  _missing_?"

"It didn't seem relevant, okay?" Dean said defensively. Sam drew in a breath, and Nell decided to cut off the ensuing argument, for her sake if not theirs. If Dean grew any more tense and angry, Nell wasn't sure she would be able to stop herself from tucking and rolling out of the Impala, which was currently roaring down a country back road at over 60 miles per hour.

"What's the Mark?"

Sam's breath left him in a sigh, and he turned back to look at her, a small line between his brows. "You don't know?"

Nell couldn't quite keep the irritation from her voice as she responded, "Would I be asking, if I did?"

Sam half-shrugged, looking a little sheepish. "Sorry. I just thought, if Crowley told Lola…" Sam trailed off, looking vaguely uncomfortable. Then he cleared his throat and explained, "It's the Mark of Cain. It's like a… a spell brand. You have to have it to wield the First Blade, which is the only thing that can kill Abaddon for good."

"I see." That explained the blade they and Crowley had mentioned. Nell did not at all like the sound of the Mark, especially now that she knew it was named after the biblical father of murder.

"Can you really sense the Mark?" Sam asked curiously. Nell heaved her shoulders in what might have been a shrug, had she not been huddled and pressed against the car door. "What does it feel like?"

It felt like Dean was brandishing a gun in her face, frankly. Or else that he was a hungry, salivating predator, and she was a rabbit just inches from his sharp, dripping jaws.

"Danger," Nell said roughly, in a tone intended to tell Sam to shut up and drop it already. Sam's eyes widened a little, but then he turned back around in his seat to look out the front window, clearing his throat a little awkwardly.

A tense silence followed, at least until Dean jabbed the car's radio to life and filled the car with music. In the backseat, Nell squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to take deep, calming breaths.

* * *

It was good to wear her own clothes again. It had been a long while since Nell had worn anything but the jeans and sweater she'd been abducted in or loose, borrowed silk pajamas. The latter, while undeniably comfortable, had made her feel strangely vulnerable at times.

Emerging from her rooms in a comfortable wrap dress and thick cardigan, Nell managed to feel almost unafraid to enter the library where Dean was pacing in agitation.  _Almost_. Nell still kept as vast a distance as possible between them as she entered and made her way to what she had claimed weeks ago as 'her' table.

The mess of papers looked mostly untouched from where she'd left them weeks ago. She had had a system in place, before, and had started to put the various notes and translations in some sort of order, but it had been so long since she'd looked at any of it that she knew getting back to work would be almost like starting over.

With a weary sigh, she sat down and got back to work.

"How's he doing?" Dean asked half an hour later as Sam returned from a quick check-in on Crowley. The demon had only been chained up in the devil's trap in the dungeon again for a few hours now, but the blood withdrawal already had him shaking and disoriented, unable to answer Sam and Dean's questions about the location of the First Blade.

Sam shook his head, lips thin. "Still pretty much useless."

Dean cursed. "Crowley needs to get his shit together, and fast. We need to find that thing before Abaddon does."

Sam agreed, but there was nothing they could do at this point but wait. He passed his brother, then stopped at the other end of Nell's table and arranged his mouth into something of a pained smile. "Back at it already, huh?"

Nell rubbed her eyes tiredly. "I have to know why, Sam."

Sam coughed a little. "Right. No, I understand. It's just, speaking of Kevin…" Sam trailed off uncomfortable. He glanced at Dean, who rubbed the back of his neck, looking equally discomfited.

Nell watched the exchange, bemused. "What about Kevin?"

"Right." Sam cleared his throat. "You know how Metatron's spell cast all the angels out of heaven?"

Nell glanced at the spot on the library floor where Gadreel, in Sam's body, had smote Kevin. "Yes. I'm aware."

Sam cleared his throat again. "Well, apparently it's not just angels who got locked out. Everyone who's died since Metatron's spell who should've gone to heaven—they're all stuck in the veil."

Nell furrowed her brow, not fully understanding what Sam was trying to say with the words 'stuck in the veil'. "What does that mean?"

"It means Kevin's a ghost," Dean said bluntly.

Nell felt like she'd missed a step going down stairs. It was one thing to know, in theory, that ghosts existed and her friends hunted them. It was quite another to hear that her friend, her  _dead_  friend, who she'd watched die in this very room, was now a ghost.

"So Kevin is here?" Nell glanced around the library, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

"Yeah," Sam said. "It, uh, takes a bit of effort for him to manifest himself, so he's not always  _visible_ , but yeah, he's here."

Nell wasn't sure how to feel about that. On the one hand, part of Kevin was still here, hanging around, which meant she might be able to see him again. On the other hand, that meant he was stuck in limbo, unable to get to heaven. And if Nell knew anyone who deserved a peaceful afterlife, it was Kevin.

"Kid can't catch a break even when he's dead, can he?" Nell's lips twisted humorlessly.

"I wish you wouldn't call me a kid."

Nell jumped. Kevin's spirit looked much the same as he had when he'd died, though thankfully his eyes were undamaged and whole. He was insubstantial, and cold, and flickered a bit at the edges, but he was there.

"You died before you could ever legally buy a beer," Nell defended, chest tight.

Kevin shrugged carelessly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he echoed Dean's words from ages ago. "You're a vampire, and I'm a prophet of the lord. Normal rules don't really apply, do they?"

Nell managed a tremulous smile. "Suppose not."

Kevin walked closer to the table where Nell had laid out all his work, making the air nearby drop a few degrees. "You don't have to keep at this, you know," he said kindly. "It was hard enough for me, and I can actually read it."

"I really do," Nell disagreed, shaking her head. "It's pretty much the only way I can avenge your death right now. And I  _know_ that sounds unnecessarily dramatic, but I can't ignore it." Nell grimaced. "It's a vampire thing."

Kevin shrugged. "If you say so. I just want you to know, in case you can't find anything… you're not disappointing me."

The assurance was nice, and it did ease a tension in Nell's shoulders that she didn't know she'd been carrying. But there was something she was missing, something Kevin had said that niggled at the back of her mind…

"Read?" Kevin looked at her blankly. Nell repeated, "Read, as in present tense, read? Can you still read this?"

Kevin blinked, then looked at the papers on the table. Squinted a little. "Yeah." He shrugged, then said humorlessly, "Once a prophet, always a prophet, I guess."

Excitement had been building in Nell's chest, but it snuffed out at his tone. She cleared her throat. "Right. Never mind. You've looked at this more than enough for one lifetime. I shouldn't ask you to look at it any more now that you're—" Nell couldn't bring herself to say  _dead_  to Kevin's face.

Kevin shook his head. "No, it's okay. It's not like I've got anything better to do, anyway. The veil is… crowded."

He said this in such a way that Nell was sure it was an understatement. She couldn't even imagine how many people must have died since Metatron shut the gates of heaven, and how many lost souls were just lingering around, unable to move on. It sounded horrible.

"But I can't manifest for very long, and I can't write anything down," Kevin pointed out sensibly. "You'll have to transcribe it."

Nell picked up a pen and squared her shoulders. "Ready when you are."

* * *

Nell waited until both Winchesters had been soundly asleep for a few hours before she crept into the storeroom, and then into the dungeon beyond. Neither of the brothers had forbid her from seeing him, but Nell supposed that was only because it would never occur to either of them that she would  _want_  to see him. Why would she, after all? He'd kidnapped her. And for all that she said she was fine, and that Crowley had not hurt her, and would they please stop asking, each denial seemed to make Sam, at least, more and more certain that Crowley had done something truly awful to her.

But Nell  _did_  want to see him, and it took quite a bit of self-restraint to wait as long as she did. She could hear him, after all, and he was clearly suffering from the sudden withdrawal of human blood. Crowley's breathing had been labored all day, and on the rare occasions he spoke he had alternated between pained, desperate moans and nonsensical babbling. And though he must have known that Nell could hear him, it never seemed to occur to him to call out to her in particular, which showed just how far gone he was.

And so, in the early morning when all the human inhabitants of the bunker were asleep, Nell filled a bowl with cool water, grabbed a cloth from the kitchen, and stealthily made her way down the corridor to the dungeon. Crowley's labored breaths quieted as she approached, probably wary of the approaching footsteps. When Nell slid the door to the dungeon open, Crowley stared with red-rimmed eyes, looking vaguely surprised.

But only for a moment. He hitched the corners up his mouth upwards in an attempt at a self-deprecating smile.

"If you're here for a conjugal visit, I'll have to disappoint you." Crowley's voice was hoarse, and at the moment not at all seductive. "I'm all tied up—and not in the fun way."

Nell tucked the mental images that comment inspired carefully away for later use. Nodding to the complex spell circle surrounding Crowley's chair, Nell asked, "If I walk into this thing, will I be able to walk out?"

Crowley examined it briefly, eyes trailing in such a way that Nell knew he could actually read whatever was written on the outskirts of the circle. Eventually he said, "You'll have to break the circle. There's a loose bit of floor, there." He nodded towards it.

Nell wondered briefly it that was the truth, or simply a ploy to get her to break the circle. But Nell was certain that the circle was, for the most part, redundant, and that the chains that held Crowley to the chair he was currently sat in were sufficient to keep him from escaping. She lifted the loose bit of floor aside and entered the circle.

She set the cloth and bowl of water on the table in front of Crowley, then sat on the table herself. Crowley looked up at her with glazed, half-lidded eyes, then sighed and lolled his head to the side, presenting his pale, lightly stubbled throat.

"Go on, then," he said roughly. "At least one of us should be allowed to get our fix."

At any other time, Nell would have taken him up on the offer. But she had drank from him not twenty four hours ago, lessening her hunger, and while she knew his blood would taste as sinfully delightful as it always did, the primal urge to sink her fangs into his veins was strangely absent. Nell assumed it had something to do with the reason she was here in the first place.

Nell picked up the cloth she'd brought with her and dipped it in the water. Crowley didn't move, neck still bared, as she wrang out the excess water. Finally Nell reached out, gently turning Crowley's pale face to look at her properly, and began to wipe away the film of sweat and dried tears that clung to his skin.

Crowley looked at her like she'd started speaking in tongues.

"What are you doing?" He asked finally, when Nell took the cloth away to rinse it in the bowl of water, then wrang it out again.

Nell didn't dignify the question with an answer. Instead she returned the cool cloth to Crowley's skin, gently cleaning his brow, his jaw, his neck. Crowley's eyes closed and his breath stuttered, and Nell watched him, stomach fluttering with the bizarre  _fondness_  she was still getting used to. Hesitantly, she asked her own question.

"...Will you be different?"

Crowley opened his eyes to look at her searchingly. "When the blood wears off, you mean," he said, and Nell nodded. Crowley released a long breath, eyes going distant. Finally he admitted, "I don't know. I'm in a unique position. No way to tell for sure until I've kicked it."

Nell was not sure from Crowley's tone of voice whether he wanted to be different, or to stay the same. Nell's stomach tightened.

"I'm pretty sure I'm in love with you," Nell confessed, almost apologetically.

The thought had occurred to her before, of course, back in the hotel suite, limbs tangled together and her undead heart so full of contentment she thought it might burst. But that was when they were alone, cut off from the world and absorbed only in each other. Nell had hardly been in her right mind, either, influenced as she was by Crowley's intoxicating blood.

But there was no other excuse for the depth of the affection now. She wasn't trapped with Crowley as her only company, and she wasn't high on his blood. The almost physical pain Nell had suffered all day as she listened to Crowley suffer alone in the dungeon was just more evidence in favor of the conclusion, and now, wiping away sweat and tears from feverish skin, Nell was sure.

It wasn't good, necessarily, or right, or wise—but it was the truth.

Crowley's eyes focused on Nell soberly then, and Nell thought he looked more thoughtful than surprised. Crowley swallowed, throat bobbing, then licked his lips. Nell admired these motions the way others might appreciate fine art, with unblinking wonder.

Then Crowley spoke, sounding somewhat apologetic himself. "I'm pretty sure the feeling's mutual." He hesitated, then amended, "Insomuch as I'm currently capable of it, anyway."

Left unsaid was whether or not he would  _continue_  to be capable of it. He had told her, after all, what it meant to be a demon: hate, and anger, and pain. Demons did not love. It was part of what made them  _demons_. It was impossible to know whether Crowley would retain the ability once he was clean of his little habit—whether he would go back to how he had been before, or whether he was permanently changed.

Nell wondered which he would prefer, but decided not to ask.

* * *

"Your mom is alive," Nell informed Kevin the next day, when he'd manifested himself in the library. Nell supposed she didn't have to wait to tell him—he probably would have heard her if she'd simply told the air in the library—but she preferred to tell him to his face.

"I know," Kevin said, sounding surprised. He raised his eyebrows at Nell, who in turn raised her eyebrows at him, wondering how he knew. Kevin explained, "Someone in the veil mentioned seeing her alive. How do  _you_ know?"

"Crowley told me."

Kevin's face darkened. He'd had a small tantrum when he first found out that Crowley had abducted Nell which resulted in a few flickering lightbulbs and perhaps a five degree drop in temperature, and Nell wondered warily if he was gearing up for another.

"So he's still holding her somewhere?"

"Well, he was," Nell admitted. "He let her go."

Kevin eyed Nell skeptically. "Are you sure he wasn't lying?"

Nell did not want to explain the telephone call Crowley had made, or the events which led to it and followed it. She said only, "Positive."

Kevin's shoulders relaxed from the hunched, angry position they'd taken at the first mention of Crowley, and he huffed a relieved sigh which Nell experienced as a chilly draft. "That's a relief."

* * *

Crowley was soon coherent enough again to explain to Sam and Dean his efforts to track down the First Blade. It was a long and complicated story, which led to a seller called Andre Develin and ultimately to the National Institute of Antiquities. The Winchesters left Crowley locked securely in the dungeon, then made for Kansas City as quickly as possible, wary of Abaddon finding the Blade before they could get their hands on it.

Nell was sorting through her notes, setting aside that which was already translated and what still needed to be translated, when her phone rang. Glancing at the caller ID and recognizing one of Sam's numbers, Nell didn't bother with a polite greeting.

"Did you find it?"

"No," Sam said, though he didn't sound too disappointed. "But we're close. The curator at the museum sold the Blade to a guy who went by the name of Albert Magnus." Sam sounded excited by the prospect.

"Should I know who that is?" The name didn't ring any bells for her.

"It's an alias the Men of Letters used to use when they wanted to deal in secret," Sam said. "You think you can pull out the membership records for us? We're looking for anyone who might've survived the 1958 massacre." Sam paused, then added, "And even if they're deceased, you might wanna double-check, because we know at least one faked his death."

Nell noted that Sam did not actually wait for her to agree to look at the records, but here eyes were beginning to become exhausted looking at cuneiform hour after hour. It would almost be a relief to look through files that were written entirely in English.

So she said, "Sure thing, Sam," and made her way to the storeroom.

There were about six large boxes dedicated to membership records, and each of them was crammed full of manila folders. Nell guessed there had to be close to a thousand files, and sighed.

"What a nightmare."

"What's tormenting you, darling?" Crowley asked from the dungeon beyond. "You're going to make me jealous."

Nell couldn't help smiling at the ridiculous flirtation. Pulling the boxes off the shelf, Nell explained, "Apparently someone bought the Blade from the museum using an old Men of Letters codename. Sam asked me to check the records for anybody who might have survived the massacre of 1958."

"Bring the files in, then," Crowley suggested. "About time I finally got some reading material in this damned place."

Given the sheer number of files, Nell was glad for offer of help. Only sheer vampire strength enabled her to bring all the boxes and her laptop through to the table in the dungeon in one trip. Nell looked through the box that looked like it had the least amount of dust on it first, sorting through files and doing some digging on the internet, trying to determine who was really dead. She wasn't at all sure she'd be able to find this Magnus guy if he'd faked his death, though.

Crowley looked through other boxes, looking at birthdates and death dates and ruling people out accordingly. Every once in a while he'd made a snarky comment about someone's name or one of the accomplishments that were listed in the files.

After two and a half hours of this, Nell rubbed her eyes. She was starting to get a headache from staring at obituaries on her computer, and she shut it, determined to take a break. Crowley laid an open file on top of her laptop, and Nell stared at it tiredly.

"This is your man," Crowley said confidently. "Cast out from the order two years before Abaddon painted the town red."

"Cuthbert Sinclair," Nell read aloud, then glanced at the box at Crowley's elbow, marked  _Infamati et Obliterati_. Then she looked at Crowley, who looked just a hair too smug. "You knew that's where he'd be the entire time, didn't you."

Crowley's lips curled in a smile Nell could only describe as devilish. "I may have heard a rumor that someone was out. I might have even done my damnedest to find said someone. But I never had a name."

Nell scowled at him. "So why did I just spend three hours Googling dead people?"

"I wanted the pleasure of your company," Crowley said easily, unabashed. Nell rolled her eyes and stood, intending to put the boxes of files back into the store room. Then she halted at the edge of the circle, and Crowley asked, too lightly, "Something wrong?"

Nell sighed, rubbed the bridge of her nose, and admitted what Crowley had probably noticed three hours ago. "I forgot to break the circle before I walked into it."

"Shame," Crowley said without a drop of sincerity. "Looks like you're stuck here."

Nell sat back down with a sigh and picked up the file on Sinclair, scanning it curiously to find out why he'd been kicked out in the first place. "Apparently he designed the circle we're stuck in," Nell noted with interest. "And those cuffs… the wards on the bunker…"

"And some truly creative torture devices," Crowley said with almost lustful appreciation. "Man's a genius. Unappreciated in his time."

Nell glanced between Crowley and the folder in her hands, then asked dryly, "Do I need to leave you alone with this?"

"You couldn't if you wanted to," Crowley retorted smartly. He opened his mouth again, eyes burning in a very familiar way, but Nell held up a finger to put a stop to whatever flirtatious suggestion was about to fall out of his mouth. Her ears had picked up the sound of a familiar engine.

"Winchesters are back," Nell informed him. Crowley sat back in his chair, looking slightly put out.

Minutes later, there was the sound of heavy booted feet stomping down the stairs in the library.

"Nell?" Sam asked hopefully. "You find anything?" And then, a moment later, puzzled, "Where are you?"

"Dungeon!" Nell shouted. She wasn't entirely sure they would hear her, but she had left the door to both the dungeon and the storeroom open, so she thought her voice would probably carry to the library, however faintly. Apparently it did.

"Dungeon?" Dean repeated, baffled. "Why the hell is she in the dungeon?"

"Crowley," Sam said, in a low angry growl. Their footsteps approached rapidly, and Nell sighed.

Before Nell could even open her mouth to tell them not to worry, they had already appeared in the doorway, faces hard and angry. Then they halted, looking a little lost as they took in Crowley, still chained securely, and Nell, leaning casually on the table, still covered in boxes.

"Okay, uh—" Sam furrowed his brow. "What's going on?"

"I'm her study buddy," Crowley informed him gleefully.

Nell ignored him and said quickly, "We found Albert Magnus."

Sam blinked in surprise, eyebrows raising. "What, really?"

Nell held up the file. "Cuthbert Sinclair, Master of Spells. Got kicked out in '56 for being 'eccentric' and 'irresponsible.' If I hadn't read the file I'd think that was a backward 1950s innuendo for homosexuality, but it's not."

Both Winchesters entered the circle without effort to take a look at the file. "And you're sure this is the guy?" Dean asked.

"Positive."

"Great. Good work." Dean patted Nell on the shoulder, then paused, looking between her and his brother. "Now how do we find him?"

Crowley smiled a broad, lazy, Cheshire cat smile. "About that…"

The Winchesters did not want to take Crowley with them, but ultimately they had no choice. Crowley would not simply give up the location he'd tracked Sinclair's home to, and in any case the Men of Letters file suggested that it was likely that the man's home would only be accessible by spell. The brothers would need Crowley's help to get the ingredients needed to cast the spell, if nothing else.

The three left together the next morning. The rumble of the Impala sounded again that same evening, and Nell looked up from her work on Kevin's notes to greet them as they returned.

"You're back earlier than I expected," she noted. Then, brow furrowing as Sam shut the door to the garage behind him, she added uncertainly, "Without Crowley?"

She left off the word 'again'. It seemed to be a pattern that whenever the Winchesters let Crowley out of the dungeon for what was meant to be a short trip, the demon inevitably escaped.

"Yeah, or the Blade," Sam said bitterly.

"Sinclair wouldn't give it to you?" Nell guessed. She had thought Sam and Dean would simply take the thing if the man didn't surrender it willingly, but his file  _had_  called him a Spell Master. Perhaps they simply weren't able.

"Oh, we got it from him," Dean said. His eyes were dark, and Nell was very grateful that he was keeping a good distance. "But Crowley ran off with it. Said he'd give it back to us when he's found Abaddon."

There was an unspoken but clearly visible frustration in both of them. "What happened? Everything, from the beginning."

In clipped tones, Sam described Crowley leading them to the location of Sinclair's home and providing the ingredients to enter by spell. Then he described his and Dean's confrontation with Cuthbert Sinclair, and the fact that the man had not only not been willing to give them the blade, but had tried to brainwash and kidnap Dean in order to have 'the full set.' Sinclair had kicked Sam out of his home, and Crowley had helped Sam re-enter and distract Sinclair long enough for Dean to kill the man with the First Blade.

It was a crazy story, certainly, but nothing that quite matched the tension dripping off the two brothers, nor explained why Crowley had run off with the First Blade.

"And while we were in there, Abaddon's friggin' demons keyed my car," Dean growled. Nell did not envy the demons who did it, if they ever ran into Dean Winchester with a weapon in his hands. "Some warning, meant for Crowley."

"And then Crowley took off with the Blade," Sam finished, looking frustrated. Then he sighed, shaking his head. "I guess he realized we had no more reason not to kill him once we had it."

Nell felt like she'd been stabbed in the gut. She wheezed a little, then rasped, " _What?_ "

Sam looked confused at the question, and himself asked, "What?"

"I thought—" Nell swallowed. She absently noticed that her hand was clutching her middle in a protective gesture, like the wound truly was physical and she was literally holding herself together. "He was  _helping_ you. He's the only reason you found the Blade in the first place. He helped get the angel out of you. And you want to kill him?"

Sam shook his head, then spoke in the tone one might use to explain something to a small child. "Just because he's been helpful lately doesn't make up for everything he's done. He's still  _Crowley_."

"Is he?" Nell murmured doubtfully, more to herself than to Sam. She felt sick.

Nell wasn't sure if Sam heard her words, but his face darkened with disapproval anyway. "And speaking of Crowley—don't think we didn't notice those old bite marks on his neck."

Dean apparently had  _not_  noticed them, because he jerked upright in surprise, looking at Sam for confirmation. When Sam nodded, Dean folded his arms and glared at her. "Demon blood?! Seriously, Nell? You read the stupid books—you  _know_  what that does!"

"I know what it does to  _Sam_ ," Nell bit back, not feeling charitable enough to pull punches. Sam flinched and looked away, but Dean was unaffected.

"What, and you think you're special?"

"What did you want me to do?" Nell asked impatiently. "Even if I could have stopped myself, it was Crowley or humans! Wouldn't you rather I drank from a demon than a human?"

"So you admit you were out of control," Dean said triumphantly. Nell nearly growled at him.

" _Of course_  I was out of control, I was  _kidnapped!_ Nothing about the situation was in my control!"

"Bullshit," Dean said harshly. "Crowley was hopped up on human blood, he's nowhere near the top of his game. If you really wanted to get away you could have."

Nell was careful not to show on her face how true that was. But it hadn't been, at least at first, and it wasn't true in the way Dean was insinuating—that Nell could have escaped from Crowley if he had truly wanted to keep her there.

"He wasn't so far gone that he didn't threaten to hurt my family when I tried to leave," Nell said, voice deadly quiet.

Dean froze. Nell wasn't sure if he was more surprised by the words, or the reminder that Nell did indeed have living family that mattered to her outside of the Winchesters.

"So what would you have had me do, Dean? Leave anyway? Be dragged back by my hair and watch demons torture my parents, my brother, my niece and nephew, because what I am—what you  _made me into_ —offends your misguided moral sensibilities?"

Dean said nothing. Atop his folded arms Nell could see that his clenched knuckles were white. His jaw was clenched, and his eyes were unyielding. To Nell, the stubborn silence felt not unlike a slap to the face.

"I think it's time I left," Nell realized aloud.

"What?" Dean blinked, and his eyes cleared some—but not all the way. There was still the lingering anger, and rage, and darkness.

"Nell—no, come on," Sam said, eyes wide and appealing. Nell shook her head, glancing around.

"I think I've gotten everything I can out of this library, anyway."

"Nell—" Sam said again, stepping forward. Nell held up a hand, and he halted.

"Don't, Sam." Nell swallowed heavily. Eyes burning, she confessed in a whisper, "I don't feel safe here anymore."

Sam opened his mouth, looking horribly wounded. Dean put a heavy hand on his arm. "She's right, Sam," Dean said, tone final. "It's time for her to go."

It took Nell less than half an hour to pack up her things. The task that took the longest was putting Kevin's notes in a box to take with her, unwilling as she was to lose any progress by getting the papers out of order.

Dean had retreated to his bedroom, and Sam had followed to argue with him in low voices, as if that would prevent her from hearing him. Nell was determinedly ignoring their conversation as best as she was able when Kevin's spirit manifested.

"Hey." Kevin leaned on the table, inasmuch as an insubstantial spirit  _could_  lean on a table.

"Hey." Nell paused in her packing, looking at him warily, unsure if she would get a lecture from him about leaving, or about expressing even the slightest sympathy for Crowley.

But Kevin didn't lecture her. He simply said, "Since you're leaving… would you take me to my mom?"

Nell blinked. She didn't know how that was possible, but she figured it must be if Kevin was bothering to ask her. "How?"

"There's a ring, in the nightstand," Kevin nodded in the direction of his old bedroom, and followed when Nell walked down the hall. Opening the door to the room unleashed a wave of emotions, and she quickly swallowed them down.

"It used to be my dad's. I figure without my body, that'll be the object my soul is tethered to," Kevin explained. Nell pulled open the drawer of the nightstand and rummaged around, then pulled out what appeared to be an old class ring. "Yeah, that's it. Could you bring it to her?"

"Of course." Nell thought nothing of making the promise. She didn't know how she would find Kevin's mother, or how she would explain that she was giving her an object with her dead son's soul tethered to it, but she would worry about that later. For now, Nell strung the ring to hang on the silver chain that hung around her throat, where it came to rest next to the old heart-shaped locket that her mother had given her on her thirteenth birthday, emblazoned with a stylized  _M_ , for McNamara.

Kevin smiled in gratitude, then vanished as Nell tucked the ring and locket back beneath the neckline of her sweater.

Sam was sitting on the hood of Nell's car when she finally made it to the garage. Nell halted a few feet away, waiting for Sam to try to persuade her to stay, or start another argument. He didn't. He just gave her a long, searching, mournful look.

"Goodbye, Sam." It did sting a little that Nell couldn't say farewell to Dean, but it was probably better for everyone that they weren't in the same room together. Not with the argument, and not with the Mark.

"Goodbye for now," Sam said firmly. He rose off the hood of Nell's car, straightening to his full, unreasonable height. "You'll always be welcome here, Nell." Sam hesitated, then added, "You're family."

Nell huffed a disbelieving breath. "Even now?"

"Especially now," Sam said, smiling a little bitterly. "Fighting about drinking demon blood? Getting into stuff we don't understand? Consorting with demons? Face it: you're a Winchester."

Nell was fiercely glad that she could not blush, because otherwise she was sure Sam could determine just what kind of  _consorting_ she had done with Crowley. Then Sam coughed, and Nell feared for a second that he'd guessed anyway.

"And speaking of demons… I, uh, took the liberty of putting some supplies in your car, just in case. Salt, holy water... that sort of thing."

Nell doubted she'd need it, but she appreciated the gesture. "Thank you, Sam."

Sam nodded in acknowledgment, looking relieved. Then, more command than request, he said, "Call us if you run into any trouble, alright?"

Nell had learned that the amount of trouble she was in at any given moment was often directly proportional to how close she was to the Winchesters, and so she settled on a half-promise.

"I'll call you."


	12. Chapter 12

"Hey, Kevin?" Nell asked uncertainly. She'd been driving without real direction for an hour, and something had just occurred to her. "Can you give me a sign that you're still with me? I'd hate to get all the way to your mom's house and give her the ring, only to find out that you're still stuck in the bunker."

Nell waited. She had been expecting Kevin's spirit to manifest in the passenger seat, but instead her radio, previously tuned to a local 'classic hits' station, sputtered and crackled, and Kevin's voice emitted from the car speakers.

"I'm still here."

"Jesus, that's creepy," Nell muttered. Kevin laughed a crackly static laugh, and then his voice faded. The radio resumed its chorus of  _Take On Me_.

That settled, Nell pulled over at the nearest rest stop. Being a vampire, she had no need to use the facilities, but she  _did_  need to stop and figure out where the hell she should go next. She was hoping she would not have to find the woman's Facebook page and try to convince her to give up her location—that hadn't gone well for Mrs. Tran last time.

She would try her other option first. She pulled out her phone, scrolled through the contacts, and then paused. She removed the chain from around her neck and tucked Kevin's ring securely in the glove compartment, then got out of the car and walked to the other side of the empty parking lot. No need for Kevin to listen in to the call.

Crowley had returned her phone to her before they left the hotel suite, and Nell had noted later, with amusement, that he had programmed his number into the contacts list. She had not then anticipated that she would need it so soon.

Crowley picked up after two rings and sounded pleased. "Miss me already?"

"Yes," Nell said honesty, not bothering to tease about it. Then, figuring she might as well update him before she got to her request, she said, "Sam told me he tried to kill you, and then he and Dean had a row with me about drinking your blood. I left a few hours ago."

"You left?" Surprise mixed with something else Nell couldn't place. "Where are you now?"

"A rest stop a few miles outside of Liberty, Missouri."

Nell drew breath to ask him where she might find Kevin's mother, but didn't have the chance. Crowley had materialized in the parking lot nearly as soon as she finished speaking, and Nell had not recovered from her surprise at his sudden appearance before he pulled her into a searing, almost violent kiss.

Then Crowley put his hands on his shoulders and held her at arm's length, looking half irritated, half exasperated. "Are you  _trying_ to get yourself killed?"

Nell was still a little shocked by the greeting, and was only further baffled by the question. "Not especially, no. Why?"

Crowley gave her a faintly impatient look, which told her how stupid a question he thought that was. Deliberately slowly Crowley explained, " _Lola_  knew all about you, which means  _Abaddon_  knows all about you. Which means, by extension, that just about every demon this side of hell will be on the lookout for you, to get to me."

"Oh." That did make sense, and it was a danger Nell hadn't considered.

"Yes,  _oh_ ," Crowley repeated snarkily, then sighed. "Come on. I've got a place where you'll be safe."

Nell quickly stepped out of Crowley's grasp, in case he pulled a disappearing trick with her and left her car, and Kevin's spirit along with it, sitting in the parking lot. "I can't go with you."

Surprise and hurt flickered across Crowley's face for the barest moment, then disappeared. A little too neutrally he said, "Then at the very least go back to the bunker."

Nell rushed to correct whatever interpretation Crowley had made of her words. "No, it's not—I promised Kevin I'd take him to his mother."

"He's come back from the dead in the last twelve hours?" Crowley asked, more curious than disbelieving. He glanced over Nell's shoulder to where her car was parked.

"No, it's—" Nell sighed, and explained what the Winchesters had told her about all the souls trapped in the veil, and how Kevin's soul was currently tethered to a ring in her glove compartment.

"I see," Crowley said, looking at least somewhat mollified when Nell had finished. "And how were you going to go about  _finding_  the dear woman?"

Nell smiled sheepishly. "That's kind of why I called you."

Crowley rolled his eyes and grumbled something under his breath about  _Winchesters_  and  _favors_. "Give me an hour."

Then he vanished. But within the hour Nell's phone buzzed with a text from Crowley: an address in Nebraska, and the words  _Warded to the tits._  Nell huffed a laugh at the phrasing, and then she was off.

* * *

There was no  _good_  way to inform a mother that her son was dead. There was  _especially_  no good way to inform a woman who had been captured by, and subsequently running from, demons that her son, who was a Prophet of the Lord and on whose account she'd been abducted and held in the first place, was dead.

Nell had tried, of course. She'd spent the hours-long drive doing her best to figure out some way to break it to her gently. But there was no way.

Nell moved Kevin's ring from the chain around her neck to her jacket pocket, took a deep breath, and approached the seemingly-abandoned, yet heavily-warded house. She knocked on the door, and waited.

Linda Tran was home, Nell knew. She could hear the woman creep closer to the door at the knock, and now listened to the woman's heart beat and her harsh breathing. There was some rummaging noises which Nell guessed was probably Linda readying weapons of some kind, but no other noises. Linda did not answer the door, and Nell didn't blame her.

But she did need to talk to her, and so Nell knocked again and said, apologetically, "Mrs. Tran? I know you're in there. Can you please open up?" Then, not entirely certain whether this would help, Nell added, "I'm a friend of Kevin's."

Linda's heart rate picked up, and there were rapid footsteps toward the door. It opened just an inch, and through the inch Nell was sprayed with a jet of water. Holy water, probably, Nell figured as she sputtered in surprise and wiped the water from her eyes.

Nell got her first good look at Linda Tran while the woman tossed down her water gun and pulled out a regular one, leveling it at Nell's heart. The woman looked like she'd been through Hell, and Nell supposed, given her experiences, that the description wasn't far off. Her eyes were hard and her lips were in a firm line, and Nell didn't doubt for a moment that the woman would pull the trigger the moment Nell seemed like a threat.

"Who are you and how did you find me?" Linda demanded in a low, fierce voice.

"My name is Nell." Nell decided to ignore the second question, and repeated, "I'm a friend of Kevin's."

Linda flicked the gun's safety off. "What do you know about my son?"

"I know…" Nell trailed off uncertainly. She didn't want to say that Kevin was a Prophet of the Lord, or that he'd been staying with the Winchesters, or any of that. Swallowing heavily, Nell said, "I know he wanted to be President, back when he was in high school. He played the cello, and was better at it than he thought he was. He loved greasy food, and had dreadful handwriting."

Linda's gun had dropped a few inches, so that if the woman fired it now Nell would be in for a very painful stomach wound rather than a shot to the heart. Nell dearly hoped that this was a good sign.

"Can I come in?"

Linda considered it for a second. Then, with the gun still aimed firmly at Nell's chest, Linda used her free hand to undo the chain on the door and open it wide. Nell stepped through slowly, watching Linda watch her as she crossed over the salt lines and passed out of the devil's trap painted on the floor without problems. Still, she did not relax as she shut the door and bolted it again, and then she turned back to Nell and levelled the gun at her with both hands.

"Where is he?" Linda demanded harshly.

Nell winced. She had made no effort, with her earlier words, to hide her use of the past tense with regard to Kevin. As clever as Linda Tran was, she would not have missed that detail. But she was a mother, and this was her son. She wouldn't believe it until she had to.

"He's dead," Nell said, as gently as she could.

"No, he's not," Linda denied immediately. "Where is he? Tell me what have you've done with him."

"He's dead, Linda," Nell repeated. "Kevin is dead. Look—"

Nell made to reach into her pocket, to withdraw the ring and show it to her, but she did not get the chance. A gunshot rang out, and pain bloomed in Nell's upper right shoulder. Nell shouted, more from surprise at the noise and the impact than from actual pain, at least at first. It only took a few seconds for her shoulder to erupt in absolute agony. As slightly too-dark blood soaked slowly through Nell's shirt and dripped sluggishly down Nell's arm, she determinedly gritted her teeth and pulled the ring from her pocket, extending it to Linda on her open palm.

Linda froze, staring at it. She did not reach for it. Hoarsely, she asked, "How did you get that?"

"Kevin asked me to bring it to you."

Linda's body shook in a full-body tremor. Nell worried for a second that she would wail, or faint, but quickly realized that she was shaking with anger. "Those bastards said they would protect him. They said he would be safe!" Linda's voice broke. "All this time, the only thing that kept me going was the thought that at least Kevin was safe…"

Linda shook her head and straightened. She snatched the ring from Nell's hand quickly, then retreated again to a safe distance.

"Tell me what happened," She commanded. Then, though she was no longer pointing the gun at Nell, she added, "Tell me what happened, or so help me, I will shoot you again."

Hurriedly, Nell told her. She skipped as much of her own story as was possible, sensing that Linda was not the least bit interested in her as a person. She told her how she had met Kevin, and how Dean had let an angel possess his brother. Then, she described how the angel had lied, and how the trap they set had failed, and how Kevin had been killed.

"We didn't expect it," Nell said softly when she had finally told Linda how the angel killed Kevin. She had not described the sight of it, the smell of it, how Kevin had screamed. Linda didn't need to know that. "We didn't expect an angel who'd healed people, even  _resurrected_ people, to turn violent so suddenly. Or to kill Kevin. Especially when he had plenty of opportunity to kill him before, if he'd wanted to."

Linda absorbed all of this silently, pacing. Finally she said, "Kevin must have known. Otherwise, why would he ask you to bring me this?"

Nell furrowed her brow for a moment before she realized that Linda must have thought Kevin had made the request  _before_  he died. Which was a natural assumption to make, really.

Nell swallowed. "He didn't ask me before. He asked me after. It's part of the spell that cast the angels down—everyone who should have gone to heaven since the angels fell, including Kevin, is stuck in the veil between worlds." Nell nodded at the ring in Linda's hands. "His soul is tied to that ring."

Linda gripped it tightly. "My son's  _soul_ is in this ring?"

"Not  _in_ it, but tethered," Nell said, though she wasn't precisely sure of how the distinction worked. "Wherever it goes, he goes. At least, until heaven is open again."

"So his… his  _ghost_  told you to bring this to me?" Linda asked, clearly disbelieving. Nell nodded. "If he's here, why can't I see him?"

"It takes a lot of effort for him to manifest. Give it time, and he should show up." Then, remembering Kevin speaking through the radio in her car, added, "It's easier for him to talk through something like a radio, though. If you've got a boombox or something around here, he could probably manage."

Linda fetched one. It was old and dusty and possibly even older than Nell, but it still worked. Linda plugged it in, then placed the ring on top of it as reverently as if were an altar at a grave.

"Kevin?" Linda stared desperately at the boombox. "Kevin, are you there? Can you hear me?"

Crackling static from the speakers. Then, "I'm here, Mom. I can hear you."

Linda Tran broke down in tears. Nell wasn't sure whether she should stay and comfort the woman, or just leave the house completely now that she'd finished her delivery. Uncertainly, Nell compromised by backing quietly into the kitchen and trying not to listen to the tearful reunion in the next room.

Lukewarm wetness on her hand reminded her that she had been shot, and that there was still a bullet in her shoulder. Nell grimaced, half at the pain and half at the senseless waste of blood dripping down her arm, and then started to rummage in the bare, dilapidated kitchen, searching for a first aid kit or anything else which might aid her in extracting the bullet.

She gave up after ten minutes. The cabinets were almost entirely bare, and Nell was not nearly so desperate as to try to pry the bullet out with a kitchen knife.

Eventually the voices in the next room went quiet. Not long after, Linda entered the kitchen, and Nell noted with pleased surprise that she was holding a first aid kit.

Linda smiled grimly and gestured for Nell to sit down at one of the dusty kitchen barstools. Her eyes were red-rimmed. "I put a bullet in your shoulder. Considering what you've done, I feel obligated to take it back out."

Nell sat, and then removed her shirt and cardigan to give Linda better access to the wound.

"So, what are you?" Linda asked, paying no mind to Nell's pained hiss as she dug the tweezers in. "I shot you and you barely flinched."

"Vampire," Nell said shortly, gritting her teeth through the pain.

Linda froze, then asked uneasily, "Should I be wearing gloves?"

Nell smiled, darkly and without humor. "Just resist the temptation to lick your fingers."

"I think I can manage," she said with a grimace. She made a little noise of triumph, then, and Nell groaned as she slowly worked the bullet out of the wound.

"The angel that killed my son," Linda began as she disinfected the wound. Nell was beginning to suspect that the woman was actually enjoying causing her pain. "What happened to him?"

"He escaped," Nell said. Linda reached for some gauze, but Nell shook her head. The bleeding had already stopped, and only blood would let the wound heal. "But I will find him, and I will kill him."

Linda did not look impressed. "I'll believe it when I see it."

Crowley was leaning on Nell's car when she emerged from Linda Tran's hideaway. Before noticing the blood and the rumpled state of her clothes he had been lounging like a contented cat, but upon spotting it he straightened up, muscles coiled and ready to spring.

"I'm going to burn her house down," he informed Nell with all the casual cheerfulness a normal person might use to say they were going for a nice walk and would return in half an hour.

"Don't." Nell caught his arm. "Her son is  _dead_ , Crowley. She's hurt worse than I am."

Crowley watched Nell through narrowed eyes for a long moment, seemingly gauging her sincerity. Finally he sighed, pulling her into his arms in a firm embrace that, impossibly, did not jostle her shoulder at all.

"Let me take you back to my place," he breathed into her ear. Nell shuddered, and Crowley's grip tightened.

"Okay," Nell agreed. She blinked, and when she opened her eyes again she, Crowley, and her car had moved from a run-down neighborhood in Nebraska to what appeared to be an empty clearing. Nell looked around curiously, then turned to Crowley with a raised eyebrow. "Where exactly  _is_  your place?"

"Right in front of you," Crowley said smugly. "Watch."

Crowley produced a small bowl seemingly from thin air. He then proceeded to fill it with a small array of bizarre ingredients, mix them up, and light them on fire, chanting lowly in what sounded to Nell like Latin. Smoke rose from the bowl as Crowley chanted. It curled upwards in the air and then halfway-solidified, creating a shimmering white portal. Crowley gestured at it.

"Ladies first." At Nell's slightly disbelieving look he added more seriously, "It's perfectly safe."

Nell stepped through. It was a little like passing through a veil—the shimmering air seemed to caress Nell's skin with a smoothness like cool silk, but only for a moment. Then Nell was standing in the middle of a wood-paneled hallway.

"Is this Cuthbert Sinclair's place?" Nell asked when Crowley appeared a few seconds later and the light of the portal disappeared completely. It was the only place Nell knew of that required a spell to gain entrance. While Crowley could have potentially replicated the spell to hide some other location, she doubted he'd bother.

"It was," Crowley confirmed, looking pleased with himself. "But he's dead, so—finders, keepers."

"Sam and Dean said this place was full of traps," Nell said, eyeing the hallway warily. She kept her ears perked for anything unusual, but the place seemed quiet.

"I dismantled them." Crowley's expression rearranged itself into an odd combination of proud and frustrated. "One or two of them almost fooled me. He was a clever bastard, Sinclair—s'almost a shame he's dead."

"For both our sake's I'm glad he is," Nell said, amused. "I don't know if I could handle you pining after him."

"I do not  _pine_ ," Crowley sniffed. "I  _admire_. Now. Let me show you around."

Crowley led her down the hallway into what appeared to be Sinclair's main collection. It was a richly decorated room, with a grand fireplace and some armchairs at one end. Paintings and tapestries adorned the walls, and several statues and suits of armor stood around. There also were thick tomes set on pedestals, gleaming swords hanging on walls, several odd skeletons that belonging to supernatural creatures, and a collection of human skulls.

Despite Crowley's assurance that there were no traps, Nell did not dare to touch anything.

Crowley showed her around the rest of the place. Nell had half-expected the interior of the place to be some sort of maze, but to her relief it seemed that, apart from the complete lack of windows or doors to the outside, the building was set up much like an ordinary turn-of-the-century house. On the same floor as the collection room there was a library that nearly rivaled the size of the one in the bunker and a large kitchen.

Down a set of stairs from the kitchen was a basement which contained a wine cellar on one side and what looked like a number of small prison cells on the other. Nell wondered briefly what what had happened to their previous occupants, then decided not to ask.

Crowley led her back up the stairs to the main level, and then up another set of stairs. He showed her the bedroom. The tour took hours.

* * *

Nell stared at the caller ID for a long second, wondering.

Sam had not called her once since she had left. Despite her promise, she hadn't called either, though she had shot him a few brief texts letting him know that she had delivered Kevin's spirit to his mother, and that she was staying safe.

Nell was grimly certain, as she answered the phone, that this was not just a social call. She did not keep this knowledge from her tone as she greeted flatly, "Sam."

"Hey." Nell could almost see him wincing. "I know this maybe isn't the best time, but—we could really use a favor."

Nell sighed loudly. "I don't know, Sam. Both of your heads are pretty far up your own asses, I'm not sure I could remove them."

Sam sighed, too. "Okay. Fine. Maybe we deserved that. But look, we've got something of a vampire situation, and we could really use your help on this."

"What kind of a vampire situation?"

"There's this teenage girl who's been raised by vampires for like a decade," Sam explained quickly. "They kept her like a pet, feeding on her—she finally ran away, but now the nest is after her. Our friend Jody Mills, she's a police office, and she's looking after her, but I'd feel a lot better if someone else was with them while me and Dean track down the nest."

It took Nell less than a second to figure out Sam's unspoken request. "You want me to stay with them in case a bunch of revenge-crazed vampires find them before you do."

Sam winced audibly. "Pretty much, yeah."

"Mm," Nell said neutrally. "Look, Sam, I'd like to help, but—"

"Please, Nell," Sam interrupted. "I know you're pissed at us right now, but Jody's our friend. She's practically family."

"I was not being sarcastic," Nell said, cutting off whatever pleas Sam was gearing up to make next. "I was being serious. Sam, I've never fought anyone before, let alone a nest of vampires. Not even a school-yard fist-fight. The extent of my combat training is a two-week women's self defense course I got at college, and my only prior experience with vampires is  _becoming_ one. I really don't know how useful I'd be."

Sam paused on the other end of the line, considering. "You shouldn't have to fight anybody. I mean, you could hear the other vampires coming a mile away, right?" Sam waited for Nell's hum of agreement to continue. "Then you could have Jody and Alex packed and out of there before they ever reached the place."

Nell sighed. "Where is this place?" Sam told her, and Nell twisted her lips, trying to calculate the travel time. "It's at least a five hour drive. Will they be okay that long?"

Sam thanked her profusely, promised to let Jody know she was coming, and then hung up, content now to turn his full attention to finding the nest.

Nell dialed Crowley, who was out on some sort of demon-business, and knew before he picked up that he would not be pleased with what she was about to ask him.

"The is the King," he greeted without warmth. Nell guessed that he was not alone.

"How do I get out of this place?" Nell asked without preamble.

"You don't," Crowley said simply.

"Sam and Dean need my help," Nell replied wearily. "Just tell me how to do the spell."

There was a long pause on the other line. Then Crowley said, quietly and incredulously, "What, and that's supposed to convince me? Leaving is dangerous enough, and now you want to go hunting with the Winchesters?"

"I'm not hunting," Nell assured him. "It's practically babysitting. I'll be fine."

"That's what they all say."

"Crowley." A little helpless to explain just why she needed to leave so urgently, Nell said, "They're  _nest._  And they asked for my help."

"And  _I_ asked you to stay," Crowley said irritably. "What am I?"

Nell did not have a word for it. " _Please_."

There was a creaking sound that might have been Crowley's jaw working. " _Fine_. You'll need these ingredients—"

Nell left in the early hours of the morning, before the sun rose, but it was already well up in the sky by the time Nell pulled off the country lane and onto the single-lane gravel road leading up to the cabin where Jody Mills had holed herself up with the girl called Alex.

From the outside, the cabin looked empty. The lights were out, and no shapes moved inside to indicate life. But Nell could hear two hearts beating, and as she stepped out of her car, she could hear a gun being prepped over the sound of gravel crunching under her feet.

Nell ignored the noise, approached the door, and knocked politely. She was feeling a little bit of deja vu, and hoped dearly that she would not be shot again.

"Jody Mills? I'm Nell McNamara. I'm a friend of the Winchesters."

There was a pause. Footsteps. The door opened a crack and a middle-aged woman with short cropped dark hair pointed a gun at her through it. The feeling of deja vu grew stronger.

"It's daytime," Jody observed suspiciously. Nell puzzled at the fact that Sam had told her she was a vampire, but apparently not that she could walk about in the daytime just fine so long as she wore a large hat.

"That's not too much of a problem for me," Nell said, deciding to ignore the gun for now. The safety was still on, at least. "Just like knowing you were home wasn't a problem, because turning off all the lights and being very quiet doesn't make any difference when I can hear your heartbeat from down the road."

Jody stared, and Nell added helpfully, "I don't need to be invited in, either—but it would be more polite of you."

Jody relaxed a little, and opened the door the rest of the way. "Sorry." A little reluctantly, Jody put her gun away. Nell breathed a quiet sigh of relief. "I haven't met too many vampires. And no friendly ones."

"Same here," Nell said, thinking sourly of Henry and the Grand Canyon. "And, frankly, I'm hoping not to meet any more. Did Sam tell you I'm not a fighter?"

Jody shook her head. "He said you were a vampire, and a friend."

"Well, before I was a vampire, I was an accountant," Nell informed her dryly. "So Sam and I agreed the best thing to do would be to have go-bags ready for you and the girl, and then as soon as I hear these guys coming, we all get in the car and drive. Avoid a fight, if we can."

Jody nodded, relaxing a little bit more. "Makes sense."

Jody busied herself prepping go bags. She was mostly already packed, given that she and Alex had only just come to the cabin yesterday, so most of her focus went to preparing some sandwiches and snacks that would travel well if they had to get out quickly and couldn't stop for food.

"So…" Jody began awkwardly as she spread peanut butter on white bread. "What do you eat?"

That felt like an awfully personal question for someone she'd met not even an hour ago, even if she was a hunter of sorts and a friend of Sam and Dean.

"Not humans."

Jody shot her a glance, then turned back to the sandwich. Forced-casually, Jody said, "That's a pretty broad category."

"I'm not picky." Nell did not want to explain that these days she subsisted mostly on a diet of demon blood straight from the tap. "You know Sam and Dean wouldn't have called me if they didn't trust me, right?"

"I know," Jody said, in a tone that suggested she's been silently repeating that to herself for quite a while. "I suppose I'm just more used to them  _hunting_ monsters."

Nell stiffened. Jody dropped her knife on the counter and spun around, eyes wide. "I'm—that came out wrong."

"I was human when they met me," Nell informed her coolly. "My  _condition_ happens to be a result of them not hunting monsters quite fast enough. I suppose they didn't want to take any chances with you."

Nell left the cabin. She didn't want to deal with Jody's thinly veiled suspicion, her questions, or her guilt about calling her a monster. She wasn't here to make friends, after all—although it stung to have someone who knew nothing about her, and who was considered almost family by people who basically  _were_  family to Nell, call her a monster. And not because of anything she'd done, either, but just because that was what she  _was_.

Jody was wise enough not to follow her, though she did utter a quiet apology to the empty kitchen. Nell leaned against the wall of the cabin and slid into a seat in the shade of the front porch, closing her eyes and listening. She tuned out the beating hearts of the two humans in the cabin behind her, the steady breathing of Jody and the softer, slower breaths of the girl sleeping in one of the cabin's bedrooms. She turned her attention to the rustle of wind in trees and the scuttering of squirrels through dead leaves, focusing and listening for any engines which turned from the main road and onto the winding country road which led towards the cabin.

It was dark when Nell opened her eyes to the sound of engines. She was inside the cabin in an instant, and her sudden appearance made Jody jump in surprise.

"They've turned onto the road," Nell said quickly. "We have to go, now."

Jody stood and rushed towards the bedrooms. She opened one of the doors and there was the click of a light switch. "Alex, get up," Jody said urgently.

The girl was  _still_  sleeping? Nell shook her head in disbelief, grabbing the bags Jody had prepared and heaving them over her shoulder to bring to the car. Inside the cabin, Alex groaned in protest.

"No, Alex, you have to get up now," Jody said, voice tight with tension. "Come on, we gotta go."

The girl groaned again, but got up. Nell started the car, making ready to floor it as soon as Jody and the girl were in the car. It was going to be close—the country road wasn't that long, and the truck the other vampires were driving was really gunning it.

Jody rushed out the door, finally, with a pretty dark haired girl in tow. "We've got maybe a minute before they reach the end of the drive," Nell warned Jody through the open window. "We've got to go,  _now_."

Jody urged Alex towards the car. The girl didn't move, standing rooted to the spot and staring at Nell with distrust. "Who are you?"

"A friend." Nell said shortly. "Vampires are closing in, so we have to drive,  _now_."

Alex reluctantly let Jody pull her into the back seat of the car. "But how could you  _know_ that?" She asked suspiciously, hovering in the doorway.

"We don't have time for this, Alex," Jody chided. "Get in and buckle up—"

Tires on gravel. Nell shut her eyes with a wince.

"No. Don't bother." Nell cut the engine and climbed out of the car. "Everyone back in the cabin."

Jody paused, confused. "What? False alarm?"

"Oh no, real alarm," Nell assured her irritably. "But they've already reached the end of the  _one-lane_  gravel drive."

"Which means we can't get out," Jody realized aloud. Her back straightened, and Nell could really see that the woman was a cop. "Back in the house," she ordered.

Alex obeyed, jogging up the steps of the porch and into the cabin, but she kept a wary eye on Nell over her shoulder and repeated, "But how could you  _know_  that?"

Jody ignored her. "Alex, go into the kitchen and hide in the pantry. Wedge a broom against the door."

"But—"

"Do it now!" Alex shut her mouth and darted into the kitchen. Jodie loaded her gun and checked the long hunting knife she'd strapped to a holster on her hip. To Nell she said, "Did you and Sam happen to discuss a backup plan?"

They had not. Nell tried to think quickly. "Well, they're stronger, faster, and they outnumber us, so…" Nell glanced at the many windows, easily envisioning an attack from all sides.

"So, bottleneck them," Jody said firmly. She spoke with the hard practicality of someone who'd been in stickier situations before and come out alive, and Nell was thankful for it. "Think you can cover those windows?"

Nell did her best. There wasn't a lot to work with, but she managed to move a large bookshelf in front of one, and turned the couch vertical and leaned it against another. Neither would really stop them, but it would certainly slow them down, and probably cause a lot of noise.

Which gave Nell another idea, and she called to Jody, who was working to block windows and barricade doors in the back of the cabin while Nell worked to get the coffee table in front of the last window in the front. "If you've got TVs in this place, turn them on full blast. Stereos or boomboxes, too—anything that makes noise."

"Okay!" Two televisions blared to life one after another, dueling voices and laugh tracks clanging in Nell's skull. A moment later, Madonna was singing over it all about  _living in a material world_ , and Nell was dizzily satisfied that her plan was working.

"Why are we doing this?" Jody had to raise her voice to be heard over the din when she returned to the front room.

Nell grimaced at her and responded in kind. "Because our ears are very sensitive, and the over-stimulation is painful and disorienting." She pulled the angel blade Crowley had given her from inside her jacket.

Jody looked at her with concern. "Will you be okay?"

"Yeah," Nell said, not very confidently. Jody did not look reassured. "I mean, probably."

There was no time to argue about it anyway. The truck was right outside now, and the engine cut out. Nell couldn't hear the crunch of gravel under feet over the echoing din inside the cabin, so she darted to one of the front windows and peeked through the tiny crack of glass available to her around her makeshift coffee table barricade. To Jody, Nell held up three fingers, then made a series of gestures that she hoped communicated that one vampire had gone around each side to test the windows, and that one was approaching the front door.

She must have succeeded to some extent, because Jody eased the safety off her gun and leveled it at the front door. Nell abandoned the window and took up a position behind Jody and facing the hallway toward the bedrooms, where the vampires would be coming from if they forced their way through one of those windows.

The door crashed open. At the same time, two windows shattered in the back of the cabin. Jody fired three rapid shots, and the sheer loudness of the sound left Nell momentarily deaf.

Splintering wood, and then two vampires, both men, both bigger than Nell, were tearing down the hallway towards her, fangs bared. Nell felt her own fangs descend into a snarl at the sight, and then she was moving without conscious thought. One of the vampires had hesitated, probably surprised to be confronted by another of his kind. Nell took his head off with one motion, and blood splattered her face and hair.

The other vampire had stumbled past her into the kitchen, and Nell turned to follow him. He was already trying to force the door to the kitchen pantry, and Nell could just barely hear Alex screaming from within. Nell tackled the vampire away from the door, snarling. Her opponent performed a quick maneuver she couldn't follow that resulted in her sailing over his head and into the kitchen wall, angel blade knocked out of her hand.

The other vampire picked it up and advanced toward her. "You killed my brother."

Nell thought, for a moment, about how pissed Crowley would be if Nell got herself beheaded with the same blade he'd given her to kill Gadreel. But it was only for a moment, because in the next, Jody was behind him.

He never heard her coming. More blood splattered across Nell's face, and then the vampire's head dropped to the ground and rolled.

"You alright?" Jody asked, voice high to be heard over the cacophony.

"Yeah," Nell hollered back. "Thanks."

There had only been three, all in all. Nell switched off the televisions and Jody dealt with the stereo, leaving the cabin eerily quiet in the aftermath. Blood was everywhere, and a good deal of Jody's furniture was utterly ruined. Nell guessed there was at least a thousand dollars worth of property damage, and was sorry for it. Not that it could have been avoided, of course, and she was sure everyone involved wouldn't cry over a few bucks when human lives were at stake, but still. Nell had seen framed photos around, keepsakes. There had been memories in this place.

Alex crept out of the kitchen pantry when the cabin finally went quiet, screamed, and then ran into the bathroom, sobbing. Nell stared after her in dismay—not because of the emotional display, but because the cabin had only one bathroom, and she had been hoping to shower off all the blood.

Jody stood in the main room, looking hesitantly between the bodies, Nell, and the bathroom door.

"Go," Nell told her wearily, nodding in the direction of the bathroom. "I'll call Sam and Dean."

Jody nodded sharply in thanks. The fear and uncertainty from before were completely gone now, which Nell was thankful for. Nell made her way into the kitchen and stepped over the body of the vampire who'd almost killed her, stopping on the way to pluck up her angel blade.

She washed up as much as she could before she made the call, splashing water on her face and using an old wash cloth the scrub at her skin and hair.

"You won't have to fight anybody, he said," Nell said bitterly to the pink-tinted water washing down the sink. "You can be packed and out of there before they ever reach the place, he said."

Nell had  _killed_  someone. Maybe Sam and Dean, and even Jody, could dismiss it, because the person was a vampire. A  _monster_. But Nell was a vampire, too, and she had chopped the head off of someone else like her. Killed him, almost without thinking. His corpse was still lying in the hallway.

And what bothered Nell most was the fact that that didn't particularly bother her. She felt the same way she had about the man who had died of blood loss in the closet of Crowley's hotel suite—a little disapproving, a little mournful, but mostly just fine.

Nell patted herself dry with another kitchen towel and called Sam. He answered on the third ring.

"Hey. We're on our way over," Sam said immediately. "We found where the nest was, but it's empty."

Nell let out a humorless laugh. "Yeah, I figured."

"Uh. You okay?" Nell could practically see the mix of confusion and concern she was sure was on Sam's face right now.

Nell sighed. "Everyone's fine. The nest is dead."

"The nest is—" Sam cut himself off. "All of them?"

Nell shrugged, though Sam couldn't see it. "I assume so. There were only three."

"...Are you okay?" Nell could tell by the tone of his voice that Sam meant the question psychologically, and wondered bitterly where Sam's concern was when he was putting her in this situation in the first place.

"I'm fine."

"But you—"

"I really don't want to talk about it with you, Sam," Nell said shortly, then sighed. "Look, if you want to make it up to me, you can handle clean-up."

The Winchesters arrived thirty minutes later, the Impala pulling to a stop beside the vampires' truck. Nell was sat on the porch once more, having retreated outside in an attempt to tune out the hushed, emotional conversation occurring between Alex and Jody in the cabin's bathroom. The Winchesters piled out of the car. Dean strode directly into the cabin, hardly sparing Nell a glance.

Sam halted at the porch steps, looking sheepish. "Hey."

"Hi," Nell responded.

Sam opened his mouth, but wasn't able to speak before Dean reappeared in the cabin doorway. He looked annoyed, verging on angry, which Nell didn't understand.  _Sam_  had called  _her_ , after all.

"You really took care of them, huh," he said flatly.

Nell stared at him, baffled at the tone. Was he angry with her for killing the vampires? Uncertainly Nell said, "Jody took care of them, mostly."

"Mostly?" Sam repeated.

"Yes, Sam," Nell said tiredly. "I only decapitated  _one_ person."

Sam opened his mouth again. Nell raised her eyebrows at him, nearly daring him to try to tell her that  _vampires aren't people_. Sam wisely shut his mouth.

Jody emerged from the cabin then, greeting Sam and Dean warmly. "You boys missed all the action."

Nell supposed the capacity to joke about stuff like this must be a requirement to be a cop. Since Jody's presence meant that the bathroom should now be free of crying girls, Nell asked quickly. "Do you mind if I borrow your shower?"

Jody smiled at her, eyes flicking a few inches to the left of Nell's face, where Nell guessed she must have missed a bit of blood in her quick rinse in the kitchen sink. "Be my guest."

The Winchesters were almost scarily efficient about disposing of bodies. By the time Nell emerged from Jody's shower, dressed in fresh, blood-free clothes, all the blood was gone from the cabin as well. Nell could still smell it, of course, but now the scent was faint, covered by the harsh, stinging smell of lemon-scented cleaner. From the back of the house Nell heard the crackle and pop of wood—a fire, to burn the bodies.

Jody turned from where she'd been examining the alarmingly normal-looking front room to look at Nell when she reappeared, damp curls pushed back and away from her face. Nell nodded at her.

Jody stuck out a hand. It was a courtesy she had not extended when they first met. "Thanks for your help."

Nell shook it. Most of her irritation at Jody's attitude had vanished at the same time the other woman had separated her would-be murderer's head from his body. "You, too."

Sam was leaning on her car again when Nell emerged from the cabin. His arms were folded thoughtfully, and upon seeing her he straightened, looking regretful. Nell wondered with sudden dread if he was about to try to have a heartfelt conversation about how what she'd done back in the cabin wasn't murder, and that she shouldn't feel bad about defending herself and her friends.

"What?" She asked, not bothering to hide her trepidation.

Sam shook his head a little. "Nothing. It's just, I wanted to let you know… we found out why Gadreel killed Kevin." Sam paused for a moment, watching Nell carefully, as if expecting an emotional outburst. Nell kept very still, and waited. "He was working for Metatron. Metatron ordered the hit."

This was not a complete surprise to Nell. It had occurred to her before that the angel who'd cast the other angels down from heaven would probably have a vested interest in making sure his spell wasn't reversed.

Her question, though, was, "How?"

Sam's brow furrowed for a moment. "He was sneaking out to meet with him, I guess. I don't remember any of that."

"Not how did he do it," Nell corrected patiently. "How did you find out?"

Recognition dawned on Sam's face, and then guilt. Quietly he said, "We captured him."

"Metatron?"

"No, Gadreel." Nell's spine straightened. At the sight, and the sight of whatever furious look Nell was sure adorned her face, Sam rushed out an explanation. "But then Metatron caught Cas, so we had to agree to a trade. We tried to trap Metatron in holy fire at the exchange, but he just… blew it out. The angel tablet makes him immune, apparently."

"You had him," Nell repeated softly. She was not aware of moving. She simply blinked, and when she opened her eyes her hands were fisted in Sam's plaid flannel, yanking him down to her level so she could hiss angrily directly into his startled face. "You had the bastard who killed Kevin, and instead of calling me, you  _gave him back_  to the angel who put the hit out on him in the first place?!"

Nell saw Dean rounding the corner of the cabin from the corner of her eye, apparently attracted by the sound of raised voices. He froze at the sight of the two of them, and then said in a voice that sent chills down Nell's spine, "I'm gonna need you to back the hell off my brother."

Nell complied immediately, releasing Sam so suddenly that he staggered a little. Nell started digging in her pocket for her car keys, not looking at either of them.

Sam put a hand on Nell's shoulder. "Nell, Metatron had  _Cas_. We didn't have any choice—"

"You  _just said_  you tried to trap him at the exchange!" Nell snarled, slapping Sam's hand away. Behind him, Dean had walked closer. His hand hovered purposefully next to the large knife he still had sheathed at his side, and his gaze was dark.

Nell had seen that look already today. It was, quite literally,  _murderous_. Dean was thinking about killing her. Nell knew it with the same instinctive certainty she'd known that he was dangerous when he'd returned with that damned Mark on his arm. Something cracked inside her, then. Something vital. Something that could not survive whole and undamaged when Dean, her friend, her  _nest_ , was looking at her like that.

Nell was in her car the next moment, locking it securely after her. She did not look at Dean again. To Sam, who couldn't seem to decide between sputtering justifications or apologies, Nell said coldly, "If you'd bothered to call me, I might have mentioned how well it went the  _last time_  you pulled the 'trap an angel in holy fire' maneuver, and suggested a better plan."

Sam went pale. Nell drove away, and couldn't help feeling that her body with the Winchesters was irreparably broken.


	13. Chapter 13

It should have taken Nell no more than five hours to get back to Sinclair's house. She'd been on the road for only two when the car hit her.

It had happened quickly, and without warning. Nell had been in the rightmost lane of a two-lane road. There were few cars out and driving at the time, just past midnight, but Nell still took no notice when headlights approached in her rearview mirror. There were not  _no_  cars on the road, after all—just few.

It was a large SUV, and it had caught up with her quickly, engine roaring loudly, and Nell had supposed that the driver must have been going close to 20 miles per hour above the speed limit. It was reckless, but it also wasn't anything Nell had seen before, and the car hadn't been tailgating her. It was driving in the left lane, and Nell was expecting it to pass her and speed further down the road at any moment.

The car had pulled almost level with hers, and then it had jerked hard to the right. Nell was lucky that the car had not been even two feet further ahead, or she would have been crushed by the impact.

Beyond that, Nell knew very little. She was disoriented by the force of the impact, the feeling of turning over, and the screeching of metal on metal. It was over quickly. When Nell managed at last to free herself from the embrace of her airbags, she found that the front of her car was lodged in a tree.

Had Nell been human, she would have been seriously injured or killed by the crash. If she had miraculously survived, she would have been stuck in the car's wreckage and likely unable to extract herself without assistance. Luckily, Nell was not a human. Suffering little more than a few bumps and some thoroughly frayed nerves, Nell kicked her way out of her ruined driver's side door and unfolded from the car, ready to yell.

Malicious intent never occurred to her. People were rarely malicious on purpose, Nell had found. In most cases they were far more likely to cause damage through stupidity and general incompetence. So she stalked angrily towards the car, ready to lay into the moron who'd run her off the road about not checking his mirrors and to demand to know how he'd managed to run into the only other person on the road in the middle of the goddamn night.

She stalked angrily, that is, until she saw five people get out of the SUV, and until the breeze brought her the intoxicating smell of their blood.

Nell froze for half a second. Then she ran as fast as she could back to her car, shouting an exorcism as fast as she could.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus—"

Abaddon's demons. Crowley had warned her about this, but Nell still hadn't thought it would actually happen. Luckily, she had prepared for it regardless.

Nell yanked the door off her car's trunk. It was totaled anyway—there was no point trying to preserve it. From within she pulled out a Super Soaker.

"Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii—"

Nell whirled around. The demons had nearly caught up with her, and Nell smiled grimly on noticing that four out of five were in range. The demons had just enough time to see the water gun and know what it meant before they were sprayed full in the face. Nell did not hold back, pumping the gun to produce a continuous stream of holy water. All four demons howled with pain. Two stumbled back, out of range, while the other two fell to their knees.

Still rushing through the exorcism, Nell paused in her assault of holy water just long enough to drive her angel blade through the chests of the two demons who'd dropped to the ground. Nell thought for a moment how funny it was how she had told Sam just a day ago that she had never killed anyone, and that now she had killed  _three_  people. And she didn't even know their names.

A crack like thunder and pain erupted in Nell's left shoulder. She cried out, losing her place in the exorcism. The fifth demon, the one who'd been wise enough to stay out of Super Soaker range, waved the hand that wasn't holding the gun she'd just used to shoot Nell. Both Super Soaker and angel blade flew out of Nell's grasp.

"Hold her," the demon ordered.

The two remaining demons, skin still lightly smoking, each took hold of one of Nell's arms, pulling them behind her roughly. The fifth demon approached, holding up a syringe full of dark red liquid. Nell struggled, bucking and yanking against the demons. Then, when that failed, she bit, rearing up to catch the neck of the demon who held down her right side.

The demon cried out in pain and dropped his hold on her in favor of trying to shove her away from his neck by the hair. Nell gulped a few hot mouthfuls of blood, then let him shove her. The momentum of it let her twist out of the other demon's grip, too. Nell sprang away and lunged for the fallen angel blade, sitting in the grass just a few yards away.

She did not make it.

* * *

Nell felt distinctly hungover when Abaddon's demons kicked her awake and dragged her down the hall. And she was quite literally  _dragged_ , because her feet were too slow and uncertain for the demons' tastes. A sneering demon held her up under each arm, pulling her down hallway after hallway until Nell was shoved roughly through a doorway. She landed hard on her face, and groaned.

She did this only partially because the landing hurt. Mostly, she groaned because she recognized one of those demons' scents, and knew he was not going to be happy, and because the demon's scent she  _didn't_  recognize could only be Abaddon.

"I believe you two know each other," Abaddon said, as if she was a hostess bringing two people together at a party. Nell rolled onto her back and, when she was not immediately kicked or glared at, slowly sat up, watching both demons carefully.

Crowley spared Nell a disinterested glance. "That's your big card?" He sounded underwhelmed. "The Winchesters' pet vampire?"

"Is she?" Abaddon asked lightly, finely groomed red eyebrows lifting. She was really very pretty for a Knight of Hell, Nell thought. "A little birdy told me she was  _your_  pet vampire."

"Nonsense," Crowley dismissed, as if the idea was ludicrous. Afraid of making the situation any worse, Nell stopped looking at Crowley and tried to focus her whole attention on Abaddon.

"Oh, really?" Abaddon smiled sweetly, voice dropping seductively low. "See, I know all about your little problem—bingeing on blood, going right to the edge of being human—all of those human  _feelings_."

"Please," scoffed Crowley. "I'm clean."

Abaddon's smile only widened. "I'm willing to bet that there's a smidgen of humanity in there somewhere."

"Not a chance."

Abaddon flicked her wrist, and Nell caught fire. Not  _literally_ , of course. There were no flames. But that was what it felt like—like she was once again lying on the ground, being burned by holy fire as Gadreel strode on her back, off to kill Kevin while Nell writhed on the floor in agony. Nell could not restrain a short, hoarse scream at the sensation, but then she squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her teeth so hard they creaked, determined not to cry out again.

Crowley tutted. "You know these ghoulish party tricks don't impress. Seen worse, done worse."

The pain increased. Nell curled in on herself, and was vaguely aware that something was sliding down her cheeks. Had the pain truly become so great that Nell had managed the physiologically impossible and started to cry?

"You're playing a weak hand, Red."

"Are you sure?" The pain stopped suddenly. Abaddon sounded crestfallen as Nell drew in deep, ragged breaths. "How disappointing." Abaddon shrugged, then seemed to brighten.

"Oh, well. Look like the boys will get their revenge after all." She nodded to a demon who stood by the door, one Nell recognized with dread was one of the ones she'd given a face full of holy water. The demon took a few steps forward, mouth stretching in a grin full of malice.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Nell thought Crowley was trying to sound disinterested in the answer, and that he hadn't quite succeeded.

"Oh, I'm told the bitch put up a rather impressive fight." Abaddon was examining her nails. "Managed to kill a few demons before they took her down, and pissed off quite a few more. They wanted to chop her head off  _hours_ ago, and since she's no use as a bargaining chip—"

Nell flinched back from the demon reaching for her. All she could think of was Crowley's voice:  _There'll be no heaven or hell for you, darling. Not anymore_. And then her conversation with Dean:  _Is it bad? Well, it's not Hell-bad, but it's… Yeah. It's pretty bad._

"Wait!"

Abaddon smiled again and made a cutting motion with her hand. The demon Nell had fought grit his teeth and retreated to the doorway, glaring hatefully.

"So, what'll it be?" Abaddon asked. "Work with me to destroy the Winchesters and their blade, or I destroy you and your… pet." She glanced disdainfully at Nell, still sprawled on the floor. "I'll give you some time to think it over. Let me know when you're ready to chat."

Abaddon left. The other demon followed her, closing the door after them and locking the door. Crowley stared at the closed door for a moment in resignation before he turned to look at Nell.

"I hate to say I told you so," he said lowly, crossing the room and offering Nell a hand. Nell took it and let him pull her to her feet. He met her eyes with thinly veiled irritation. "But I  _did_ tell you so."

"Sorry," Nell said, sincerely apologetic. She  _had_  let herself get kidnapped again, after all. Though she did feel the need to add, "It was five against one."

"Are you alright?" Crowley looked her up and down, gaze lingering on the blood splatter on her face and clothes. His eyes narrowed dangerously at her left shoulder. "You've been shot."

Nell glanced down at it, having honestly forgotten. "Right. Well, as Abaddon said—I put up a bit of a fight." Crowley's gaze was still dark, and Nell added, "It's nearly healed already, I think. Most of this blood isn't mine."

"Yes," Crowley said in a low rumble, all traces of irritation disappearing. "The blood of my enemies is a lovely color on you."

"Speaking of your enemies," Nell began, but stopped when Crowley shook his head. He caught her hand and pulled her across the room and into and attached bedroom, closed the door after them, and then switched on the television. The thing was already tuned to a porn channel, and Crowley jabbed the volume to the maximum with a smile of satisfaction.

"That ought to give them something to report back to that whore," Crowley said smugly, by way of explanation. He stepped into Nell's personal space so they could speak without having to raise their voices to be heard over the moans and smacking noises emitting from the television. "Now. What were you saying about my enemies?"

"How much trouble are we in right now?" Nell asked, though she was having trouble taking the situation seriously when she could see what was being done with an almost comically large dildo on the screen over his shoulder.

"Rather less than Abaddon thinks," Crowley said. He looked relaxed, now that he wasn't in front of the other demon, and Nell believed that we was truly confident in his answer. "She wants me to lure the Winchesters into a trap, and have them bring the First Blade. All I have to do is tip them off."

Nell stared at him, trying to ignore the moaning and the dildos enough to apply logic to the situation. "Wouldn't it make more sense to lure them here  _without_  the Blade, kill them, and then make you fetch the blade yourself?"

Crowley smiled appreciatively and tucked a dark curl behind Nell's ear. "Not everyone can be as clever as you and I, darling."

"So, what—you're just going to go out there and say you'll do it?" Nell asked, deeply skeptical. "And she's going to buy that?"

"I can make anyone buy anything," Crowley said matter-of-factly. "I am an  _exceptional_ salesman."

Nell searched his face for any hint of uncertainty, but found none. He seemed absolutely positive that his plan would work. Nell was considerably less confident, but since she could do absolutely nothing to change matters, she said nothing. Instead she turned and picked up the remote from where Crowley had discarded it on the room's bed. She couldn't take listening to the damn thing any longer, and definitely not at this volume.

"Ah-ah." Crowley stopped her hand before she could turn the device toward the television. "It's only been a few minutes, love. I have a reputation to maintain."

Nell met Crowley's eyes defiantly and hit the power button. Into the sudden silence she dared him, "Then maintain it."

Crowley smiled wickedly.

The next moment Nell was pressed up against the wall, hitting it with enough force to bruise a human woman, and Crowley was kissing her with equal ferocity. It was rougher and more forceful than any of their previous encounters, and Nell could not help but feel as if she were being  _devoured_. She wondered if this was what Crowley felt like, when she drank from him.

Crowley bit her lip, hard. Nell moaned in pain and surprise, and then in pleasure as Crowley's tongue soothed the spot.

Against her lips he said, "Reputation, darling."

In retaliation Nell bit him back, the lightest flash of her vampire teeth nicking his bottom lip as they kissed. Crowley sucked a breath, and then hummed in satisfaction as she she sucked the blood eagerly from his lips. She moaned appreciatively as she did so, partly because the blood was heavenly, but mostly because Crowley wanted her to be vocal, and she was willing to indulge him.

Crowley pulled back and began to tug at Nell's blood-stained clothes. He looked drunk with lust as his fingers tangled in the rust-dark fabric.

"How many?" Crowley breathed. Nell blinked at him, puzzled by the question and by the fact that her shirt was not off yet. He clarified, "How many demons did you kill?"

"Two."

"And I missed it." Crowley's eyes closed briefly, face a mask of pained longing. Then he opened his eyes, looking at her again with his whole attention and finally divesting her of her shirt. "Must have been almost as beautiful as this."

The appreciation was mutual. There were few things more attractive to Nell than a dark-haired man in a well-fitted suit. One of those things was a dark-haired man in a well-fitted, sex-rumpled suit, and Crowley was well on his way there. His jacket was hanging a little lopsided, his undoubtedly-expensive tie askew. She felt a deep satisfaction at knowing that she was the cause of the disarray.

Nell shimmied out of the rest of her clothes with urgency. Crowley's hands reached for his tie, and Nell caught them quickly, shaking her head.

"Leave it on."

She wanted to watch him become unraveled and messy and sex-tousled in his trademark suit. She wanted to be able to pull him closer by his neck tie, to work her searching hands underneath his button-up shirt. Nell wanted to grind down against him, her fully nude, him fully clothed. Or, as fully clothed as he could be with his cock inside her.

Crowley's eyebrows rose, and then he smiled the pompous, cocky smile that made Nell's stomach jump in excitement.

In one motion, Crowley unzipped his pants with one hand and lifted Nell against the wall with the other. Nell thought that shouldn't be possible, even with demon-strength, and wondered if it was actually demon-magic supporting her—and then she did not think at all, because Crowley had thrust roughly into her and sank his teeth into her neck with one quick motion.

Nell screamed, then moaned, hands scrabbling against Crowley's suit-covered shoulders. She panted harshly, and then whined as Crowley's tongue scraped against the small wounds his teeth had caused.

"There's a joke here somewhere," Crowley said against her neck, sounding far too coherent for Nell's taste. "Vampires, biting—"

Nell ducked her head and bit Crowley back before he could finish his thought. He groaned, and his hips stilled. Nell sucked in a mouthful of his sweet, sweet blood, and then Crowley resumed his rhythm, harder and faster, pulling at her hair and muttering curses.

"Fucking hell—"

Nell was tempted to pull away and make a joke of her own, that if you thought about it, she kind of  _was_  'fucking hell'—but that would require her to take her mouth from Crowley's neck, and to stop lapping down his exquisite blood.

Crowley hissed, and without breaking rhythm, worked a hand between them. Clever fingers pressed against Nell's clit and rubbed  _just so_. Nell managed, just barely, to retract her teeth from Crowley's neck before she lost control, crying out and shaking around him.

Crowley caught her lips at the height of her orgasm, tongue snaking into her mouth, tasting his own blood where it lingered on her tongue. He groaned, slammed Nell hard against the wall once more, and then came inside her.

They separated shortly after, Nell sliding down the wall to stand on her own feet again, and Crowley tucking himself back into his pants. He made no other attempts to make himself look anything other than thoroughly shagged as he crossed to the door of the bedroom and poked his head out, catching the attention of a waiting demon.

Voice still husky, he said, "You can tell Abaddon I'm ready for that chat."

Nell showered off the blood and sex while Crowley and Abaddon conspired, and when she was clean she drew herself a bath. Over the sound of running water, she was only just barely able to make out the sounds of Crowley and Abaddon negotiating, and then calling Sam and Dean. Nell stayed in the water, relishing the warmth and trying to relax as best she was able considering the situation.

It was difficult. It was hard enough trying to relax knowing that Crowley was out there with Abaddon right now, and that at any moment the other demon might sense his trap, or decide that Crowley had played his part well enough and just kill him.

Even if everything went according to plan and the Winchesters arrived with the First Blade and killed Abaddon, Nell wasn't entirely sure that would be good for her or Crowley. Sam had already mentioned his desire to kill Crowley, after all, and Dean had looked close to killing Nell when she'd ever-so-briefly manhandled Sam. They had not parted on good terms. Nell had been hoping not to see them for a while, give tempers some time to cool. Seeing them so soon would be bad enough on its own, but Dean would also arrive with that awful Mark and the Blade together. If the Mark felt so bad on its own, Nell didn't even want to think about what she'd feel when faced with Dean with the First Blade in his hand.

Nell was easing into a plush, thick robe—what was it with demons and swanky hotel suites?—when Crowley's phone rang. He let it ring for a moment before he answered.

"Squirrel," Crowley greeted. "How goes it?"

"We got the Blade, now what?" Dean sounded irritated.

"You need to get it here at once," Crowley said. "Cleveland, Humboldt Hotel. Penthouse, of course. When you get here, I'll take you to Abaddon. I'll draw her out, and then you can skewer the ignorant hag."

"All right, we're on our way."

"Oh, and, Dean," Crowley said before Dean could hang up. "You need to get a move on. It's a good day's drive from Poughkeepsie."

"What are you talking about?" Dean asked impatiently. "We're not even near there."

"Yeah, like I said: you need to leave Poughkeepsie right away."

Crowley ended the call. Nell held her breath, slowly creeping out of the bathroom and wondering just how stupid Abaddon was. Because there was absolutely  _no way_  Abaddon hadn't heard Dean's side of the conversation, and anyone with even half a brain who had hear both sides of the conversation would be able to tell that  _Poughkeepsie_ was some kind of code. Probably Crowley's idea of tipping the Winchesters off.

Nell froze in the doorway to the bathroom as she heard two sets of footsteps cross the outer room, too heavy and clomping to be Abaddon's or Crowley's. Abaddon, meanwhile, was talking.

"Nice. But here's the thing… you've been plotting with those boys for some time now. When they get here, it'll be you, the Winchesters, the First Blade, and little, old me in one place. Now, I don't mind stiff odds, but ...let's be reasonable."

A gunshot rang out in the other room. At the same time, the door to the bedroom opened and the two demons Nell had shot with holy water entered. Nell felt panic and relief simultaneously—panic, because the demons were approaching and she had no weapons, and relief, because Crowley had cried out in pain and was still talking to Abaddon, which meant that, at least for now, he was still alive.

Nell backpedaled into the bathroom, reaching for the door handle. One demon extended a hand toward her, Darth Vader style, and Nell braced herself to be thrown against the wall. She wasn't. She only stumbled briefly, like someone had deliberately shoulder-checked her as they passed by. The demon furrowed his brow. Nell seized the door handle and moved to slam it shut.

One of the demons' feet stuck in the door before it could close. Nell snarled and put more pressure on the door, but the demon threw his full weight against it, and then against Nell, knocking her to the ground.

"Nell," Crowley said, sounding pained. From the bullet? Or from worry?

"Relax," Abaddon said as Nell's vision went dark. "It's just a little dead man's blood. Can't have her warning the Winchesters, now, can we?"

* * *

Nell blinked blearily awake. She felt… drunk. As drunk as she'd ever felt, she thought, or at least more drunk than she'd felt since leaving college. She was laying on her back on the bathroom floor, but it felt much more like she was on a tiny boat being tossed on stormy seas.

She shut her eyes and took a few deep breaths, trying to suppress the nausea and dizziness. After a few minutes she felt ready to open her eyes again, and did so. Still on the bathroom floor, still wrapped in the bathrobe she'd donned on getting out of the bath. And still, Nell noticed dumbly, slightly wet. Not much dryer than she had been when the demons had tackled her to the ground.

Nell turned her head suddenly toward the bedroom and regretted it immediately. She repressed a moan as her vision spun, then did what she'd meant to do in the first place—scan the place for demons. There were none. The room was empty. In the outer room Nell could hear only one steady heartbeat, and she knew, more by instinct than by reason, that it was Crowley's.

Nell turned her head back to the ceiling and tried to think. The demons were gone. She was on the floor where they had left her, still wet. They had injected her with dead man's blood, to stop her from… something.

Nell was not entirely sure how long she had been out the last few times she had been injected with dead man's blood. There hadn't been a timer, after all. It had been late afternoon verging on evening when Lola had abducted her outside the butcher shop and injected her that first time, and it had been early morning when Nell had woken again. That added up to somewhere around ten to twelve hours of unconsciousness.

It had been just past midnight when the demons had attacked her before, and Nell recalled that it had still been dark outside when she had been brought before Crowley and Abaddon, and though the sky had been getting lighter outside the suite's windows, the sun had not yet risen when Nell had taken her bath. Given the time of year, there were only maybe six hours between midnight and sunrise. With everything else that had happened, Nell guessed that she had only been out for perhaps four or five hours after the demons injected her on the side of the road.

From the yellow sunlight Nell could see shining on the bedroom carpet, Nell guessed that only one or two hours had passed this time.

That was curious. Nell wondered if she was building up an immunity to the stuff, but only entertained the notion for a minute before she dismissed it. She was sure that Sam or Dean or the many books on vampires that Nell had read in the Men of Letters' library would have mentioned if vampires could somehow become resistant to dead man's blood. They would have found that critical information to know, for obvious reasons.

No, this felt like something new and unique to Nell's situation. Which probably meant that it was linked to the only other new and unique aspect of Nell's vampirism: demon blood.

When Lola took her, Nell had been feeding on a steady diet of pig's blood. That had knocked her out for half a day. But Nell had been drinking Crowley's since then, and while she had not fed in a few days before being captured, she had managed to steal a few quick gulps of demon blood from one of Abaddon's minions before they finally took her down. She went down for four or five hours.

This time, Nell had drank her fill of Crowley's blood not much more than an hour before being injected, and she went down for perhaps two hours, if not less.

It was a very handy thing to know. Especially because, based on the earlier time frame, Abaddon and her demons had left her to lie on the bathroom floor, likely assuming that Nell would be out of it for a few hours more.

But Nell was not out of it. She was a little loopy, yes, and she dreaded the idea of moving her head again, let along pushing herself up and trying to move or do anything else that might be useful—but she was awake.

Nell wondered what to do with this.

Crowley was in the outer room, Nell knew, and had been shot, but not with anything that would kill him. Abaddon was presumably somewhere nearby, waiting for the Winchesters to arrive with the First Blade. And the Winchesters were on their way, driving from… Nell didn't know, except that it wasn't Poughkeepsie. They could be hours or minutes away, for all Nell knew.

Nell thought about all of this for long minutes. Whether because it was true, or whether it was because she simply wasn't thinking clearly, Nell wasn't sure, but in the end she decided the best thing for her to do would be to simply keep lying on the bathroom floor, trying to sober up as much as possible until something happened.

The Winchesters were on their way, and Crowley had already warned them that it was a trap as much as he was able. Nell would improve nothing about the situation by stumbling drunkenly out of the bathroom. The likeliest result of doing that would probably be another injection of dead man's blood, and since that sounded about as appealing as a root canal, Nell simply laid on the floor and waited.

Eventually there was the sound of heavy boots in the hallway. There was something not quite right about the sound, and as she heard the door to the suite swing open Nell finally put her finger on what it was: there was only one set of feet.

"Hello, Dean. Love the crazy bloodlust in your eyes," Crowley greeted casually. "Let's not waste time. I'll take you to Abaddon. It's not far."

There was a pause, and then a commotion. A fleshy sound of something being stabbed and a cry of pain, and then the smack of a body being pressed to a wall. Beginning to worry, Nell opened her eyes and sat up, and then immediately had to close them again while she regained her bearings.

"A boy and his Blade," said Abaddon, who was apparently in the suite now as well. "And still no match for the new queen. So, first…" Abaddon trailed off, like she was deciding nothing more sinister than what appetizer to have before a meal. Nell pushed herself to her hands and knees and decided against standing up, instead electing to crawl on her hands and knees out to the bedroom, toward the door leading to the main room.

"You'll die." Abaddon paused, then added in the same tone as one would say 'with cheese,' "Painfully. And then Crowley will watch his vampire girlfriend die—ditto—and then the king himself. And Blade destroyed." Abaddon paused again. "That's quite a to-do list!"

Dean said nothing, but Nell heard his booted feet hit the carpeted floor of the outer room. Abaddon's breath hitched a little. Dean's feet marched slowly forward. Then the sound of a back hitting the wall again, and Abaddon laughing, half triumph, half relief. But not for long, because then there's the sound of Dean's feet on the floor again, steadier and quicker this time. From the hall, the quick pounding of booted feet running as fast as they could—Sam.

Sam's footsteps stopped in the doorway. Nell paused with her hand on the knob of the door to the main room.

A squelching impact of the Blade stabbing into flesh, and then a loud scream from Abaddon. And then, even when Abaddon was quiet, several more quick, fleshy sounds—Dean driving the First Blade into Abaddon's dead body, over and over again.

Nell decided not to open the door.

"Dean," Sam said, weakly at first, then louder. "Dean, Dean! Stop!" The stabbing noises halted. Sounding shaken, Sam repeated, "You can stop."

Something clattered to the floor. All three hearts in the next room beat like mad.

"Great job," Crowley said at last, when the heart beats had started to slow. Hesitantly, Nell used the doorframe to pull herself upright and opened the door. None of the men seemed to notice. "Excellent teamwork all around."

"Teamwork?" Sam said incredulously. "You just sat there."

"Devil's trap bullet," Crowley informed him a little testily. "An idea I apparently have your grandfather to thank for. Care to help me get the damn thing out?"

Sam, looking utterly unsympathetic, handed Crowley a large knife. Nell grimaced at it and turned around, stumbling to the bathroom on uncertain feet for a first aid kit. She hoped there would be one.

In the main room, Crowley was apparently trying his luck with the knife, because he hissed in pain. To one or both of the Winchesters he said, "You could at least—aah!—help me with this."

"We didn't kill you, Crowley, even though it would've been very easy," Sam said flatly. "Isn't that enough?"

"You owe me," Crowley replied incredulously. "Do I get no credit for warning you this was a trap?" There was a long beat of silence. Nell made a soft noise of triumph as she located a first aid kid lurking behind a hair dryer under the sink. "'Poughkeepsie' ring a bell?"

There was another beat of silence as Nell scrambled to her feet and tottered her way back through the bedroom. Crowley huffed. "I sense drama."

Nell emerged from the bedroom with first aid kit in hand. The Winchesters, who had begun to argue, did not notice her. Crowley did, and looked pleasantly surprised to see her. He set down the knife he'd been using to have a go at his shoulder and watched as Nell clumsily extracted tweezers from the first aid kit. Tongue between her teeth, Nell did her best to keep her hands steady as she worked the tweezers into the wound and tried to get a hold on the bullet. She did not entirely succeed.

"Ah—" Crowley gasped after a second, and Nell froze, frowning apologetically at him.

"Sorry."

"It's alright," Crowley assured her. Nell turned back to his shoulder, taking a deep breath and focusing intently on her work. "I'm frankly surprised you're even conscious."

Nell nodded, then told him, slurring slightly, "Was only out for 'n hour 'r so." Then, more quietly, added, "Think it's the demon blood."

"Really?" Crowley's eyebrows raised. Nell made a soft 'aha!' of success as she finally got the tweezers around the bullet. "Fascinating… How do you feel?"

"Drunk," Nell said bluntly, then extracted the bullet in one motion. Crowley hissed in pain, then sighed in relief. Nell noticed with delight that her fingers were covered in blood, and slid down to sit on the floor at Crowley's feet, licking her fingers clean with an enthusiasm she had once reserved for brownie batter.

"Okay, not that's just gross," Dean said, grimacing. The Winchesters had finally noticed her, it seemed, and both brothers were watching her with undisguised disgust. Nell made defiant, unrepentant eye contact with Dean as she licked the last drops of blood from her hand. Dean shook his head, repeating the word, " _Gross_."

"What are you even doing here?" Sam asked, looking around the suite as if he would find some sort of explanation for her presence.

Nell jabbed a finger in the direction of Abaddon's corpse. "She did it."

Crowley made a noise of amusement in the back of his throat. "You really  _are_  drunk."

Sam blinked in puzzlement at the comment, then seemingly decided to ignore it in favor of asking Nell more questions. "Yeah, but why? I mean, we didn't even know you were here, so what did Abaddon get out of capturing you?"

Nell rolled her eyes so hard she swayed a little. "S' _always_  about you, isn't it?"

Sam stared at her for a second in shock, then started to splutter.

"In sanguis veritas." Crowley muttered it, fondly, Nell thought, then scooped her off the floor. Nell looped her arms around his neck immediately, smiling absurdly at being carried bridal style by the demon king of hell. Crowley was looking thoroughly amused. "Let's get you somewhere you can sleep it off, shall we?"

"I can't sleep," Nell reminded him seriously, and Crowley's smile widened.

"Wait a second—"

"Crowley—"

The protests of the brothers Winchester were ignored. In the next moment Nell and Crowley were in a very familiar clearing, and then minutes later they were inside Cuthbert Sinclair's home once more, and Crowley was crossing the threshold of the bedroom, despite Nell's repeated reminders that  _sleeping it off_  would be physically impossible.

Crowley set her down on the bed. Nell had been opening her mouth again to insist that she was  _fine_ , but shut it at the look on Crowley's face.

It was a peculiar look. Soft, and amused, and patiently affectionate—but also, simultaneously, exasperated and irritated and even a little accusing.

"I'm clean," Crowley told her, with the same utter certainty with which he'd told Abaddon. Nell had thought he might have been bluffing, then, but from his expression Nell could tell that he was truly serious.

"I haven't touched human blood in weeks," Crowley continued. "Not one drop."

One of his hands reached upwards, towards Nell's face, but then halted, fingers just brushing her throat. Crowley's eyes dropped from her face to look at the point where their skin made contact. The red demonic glow Nell could sometimes see in Crowley's eyes was more prominent now. Nell was certain that Crowley was more than capable of taking Nell's head off from this position, and almost certain that he was actually pondering it.

But then the fire in Crowley's eyes was banked, and his fingers trailed up her neck to caress her face.

"I should have stopped caring about you by now." The words were reproachful, though whether the reproach was meant for Nell or for Crowley himself she couldn't say.

Nell decided to ignore the tone, and the brief moment where Crowley had clearly contemplated killing her. It wasn't, she thought, that he actually  _wanted_  to kill her. It was just that his feelings for her were  _inconvenient_ , and, as the past day had proven, a potential liability. Not to mention how un-demonish the feelings were.

"I love you, too," Nell told him. Then, because her inebriation made her talkative and because Crowley was still gazing at her with that peculiar conflicted expression on his face, she smiled and added softly, "Of all the people I care about who know me as I am, you're the only one who's never looked at me like I'm a monster."

This was true. Sam and Dean and Kevin, for all that Nell considered them family,  _nest_ , on an instinctual level, had all looked at her at some time or another like she was a monster. She could still recall the way Kevin had paled, all those weeks ago, when Nell had told him just what her hunger for blood was like, and how tempted she was by Crowley's blood.

(Nell had not told Kevin's spirit about her relationship with Crowley. Even if she had wanted to she would have been utterly unable to describe it in a way that Kevin would be able to understand, but Nell had not wanted to. Kevin, though she had loved him like a brother, was dead, and Nell saw no benefit in informing Kevin's spirit that Nell had drank from, had sex with, and developed feelings the demon who had kidnapped him multiple times, killed his girlfriend, cut off his finger, and held his mother in a storage locker for several months.)

Fresher in Nell's mind were the startled expression on Sam's face when she had grabbed him by the shirt, the twitching of Dean's hand towards his large knife, and the identical looks of disgust the brothers had worn while Nell licked her fingers clean less than half an hour ago.

Crowley's conflicted expression vanished. His eyebrows rose, and his lips curled up at the corners in a sly devils smile.

"But you  _are_ a monster, darling," he said, brushing his thumb across her cheekbone, the gesture almost reverent. "That's what I like about you."

Was she really? Truly? What made her that way? Was it the simple fact that she was a vampire? Or that she drank demon blood, and consorted with Crowley? The first was uncontrollable. The second was nothing the Winchesters hadn't done. She'd hurt and killed far fewer people on purpose than Sam and Dean did purely by accident in a typical year.

"Am I? I tried so hard to keep a grip on my humanity," Nell murmured, gazing at the ceiling in thought. "When did I lose it?"

Nell suspected that, at least in the Winchesters' eyes, the difference was her lack of self-loathing. She could be a vampire and not be a monster so long as she was 'good,' which meant choking down animal blood and generally doing her best to live in denial.

Embracing her nature, acknowledging her diminished sense of empathy for human beings and the vampiric nature of her desire for revenge, drinking demon blood for sustenance and  _enjoying it_ —that wasn't what good 'vegetarian' vampires did. That was what  _monsters_  did.

"Don't fret about it," Crowley said, rising from the bed. "Humanity is overrated, anyway."

* * *

Nell got back to work as soon as she was sober enough to do so. She returned to the table in Cuthbert Sinclair's library where she had spread out Kevin's notes, and began once again to refamiliarize herself with them.

Crowley, too, was keen to get back to work, though in his case that meant cracking several hundred demon skulls and unleashing a reign of terror on every demon who had supported Abaddon or even dared to doubt him. Nell imagined that would probably take a while, and that it would probably take even longer because, as Crowley had once told her:  _I like to take… my… time._

It was why she was mildly surprised when Crowley dallied, following her into the library and peering over her shoulder. When he lifted a paper covered in Elamite cuneiform Nell warned him, "If you get any of those out of order, I will skin you."

"Promise?" Crowley asked huskily, giving Nell a heated, mischievous glance. Nell narrowed her eyes at him and he set the paper back down where he'd found it. "What,  _exactly_ , do you hope to get out of all this?"

"I just  _know_ that if I can decode this thing, I can find out what it is Metatron wanted to hide so bad that he had Kevin killed," Nell said, tugging at her curls in frustration. "Maybe even a solution to the angel problem."

"How do you mean?" Crowley sounded interested, likely because Nell had referred to angels as problems.

"I mean some sort of work-around to deal with the angels on earth," Nell explained. "If the spell's really irreversible and they can't go back to heaven, then maybe there's a way to send them somewhere else.  _Trap_  them somewhere else."

Crowley went very still, eyes distant. Then he breathed a soft, " _Oh_."

"What?" Nell said immediately, not sure from the look on the demon's face whether this was a good reaction. " _Oh,_  what?"

Crowley did not answer her immediately. First he kissed her, hard and thoroughly, pressing her back against the table. Nell pressed back against him, less because she was enjoying it (though she was) and more because if Crowley pushed her back any farther, her notes would become disorganized.

Crowley's grin when he ended the kiss was more than a little malicious, and it made Nell's stomach warm with deep, fond affection.

"Clever, clever girl," Crowley said, eyes shining. "I think I may know just the thing."

Nell stared at him, then repeated, "What?"

"Just a little trinket we've got downstairs," Crowley said, faux-casually. "Big box. Currently housing two very irate archangels."

It took Nell a few seconds to put two and two together.

"You mean the cage," Nell realized aloud. Crowley nodded, and Nell's eyes widened. "The cage!  _Of course_ —why didn't I think of the cage?"

It was perfect. The thing was built to keep in Lucifer, and it was currently keeping in both him  _and_  Michael. If it could contain two archangels until the end of time, Nell was sure the cage would be able to hold the rest of the angels.

Not that they could cram them in  _the_  cage, of course. Opening it was difficult to say the least, and there was too much risk of one or both archangels making a break for it. But if they could  _recreate_  it, figure out how it worked…

Nell's shoulders drooped at that thought, excitement dimming. Gesturing to the mess of papers behind her Nell said, defeated, "I haven't found a single mention of it on here."

Crowley looked not the least bit crestfallen. He kissed her again, quickly, and spoke into her ear, "Leave it to me."

And then he was gone, leaving Nell blinking in confused frustration of both the sexual and non-sexual varieties.

* * *

Nell was growing irritated.

Crowley had been gone for three full days, and Nell had been staring at these damned notes for three full days as well. She was  _sure_  that she had put together all of the notes on the part of the tablet that Metatron had been trying to hide, and she had set aside all the other notes in favor of staring at just these. She was giving it her full attention, and she had the resources of the dead Cuthbert Sinclair's library at her disposal. And yet, despite all that—

"This doesn't make any  _sense_."

Nell buried her face in her hands in frustration. Maybe she needed to take a break.

"You're reading it upside down," remarked someone who was  _not Crowley._

Nell was on her feet with an iron poker in her hand the next instant. It was impossible not to pick up a few things after living for so long with the Winchesters, the first and foremost of which being the means for detecting and repelling ghosts. Nell had not failed to notice over the last day how the lights of the library occasionally flickered, or the unusual cold spots. Without further activity she had not gone to the precaution of making a salt circle, but she had kept an iron fire poker close at hand, just in case.

Now, she was brandishing it at a man with slick dark hair dressed in a three piece suit and bow tie. He had raised his hands in the air innocently, smiling a charming smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Here, now, there's no need for violence," he said. The words had an old-fashioned lilt to them, almost reminiscent of the transatlantic accent people used in old movies.

"Cuthbert Sinclair?" Nell guessed, not lowering the poker. "Right… you'd be stuck in the veil, too."

"Yes, unfortunate," Sinclair agreed, looking annoyed. "I took measures against this kind of thing, you know. If that friend of yours had stabbed me with anything but the First Blade, I'd still be alive."

Nell wondered how Sinclair had known that they were friends. Perhaps he just assumed, since Crowley had brought her here, and he had helped the Winchesters kill him. Or perhaps Sinclair had been watching her and Crowley for sometime, present but unseen.

"Let me guess. You want us to leave your house," Nell said, still holding the poker at the ready.

" _Goodness_ , no," Sinclair said immediately. "I want your help!"

Nell blinked, then furrowed her brow. "Sorry?" Did he mean to open up heaven? Get him out of the veil? That was kind of a work-in-progress, and if he'd been spying on her then he probably knew that.

"Your help," Sinclair repeated patiently. Or, seemingly patiently. His eyes were still cold. "I'll need it, to come back to life. In a way, this little heavenly SNAFU you've gotten yourself mixed up in is to my advantage. If the gates of heaven were open, I'd have a much harder time getting back into a body."

Nell took a moment to let that sink in, then slowly shook her head. "Even if I  _could_ help you… why would I want to?"

Sinclair's eyebrows raised. "You mean aside from the fact that you're trespassing in my home?"

"It's not trespassing when you're dead," Nell said, unabashed. Then she added, "Besides, you threatened Sam. You tried to brainwash and kidnap Dean."

"And in return, they killed me and stole the First Blade." Sinclair said it lightly, as if he held no grudge. "I rather think that makes us square, don't you?"

"Yeah, no," Nell said flatly. "It's not happening."

"And why not?"

"Because I don't trust you." Nell had been pretty sure that Sinclair was a sociopath, just from reading his file and Sam and Dean's account of his behavior. Now she was sure.

"But the  _demon_ you trust," Sinclair said skeptically.

"That's an awfully judgy tone from the man asking a vampire for help," Nell pointed out. Sinclair shrugged.

"Beggars, choosers." He paused, eyeing her analytically, then sighed. "I can see you're not convinced. But you  _are_ stuck in my home… as am I. And neither of us sleep." He smiled his charming, handsome smile. "I have all the time in the world to convince you."

Crowley was gone for five days in total, by Earth reckoning. Nell was vaguely aware that time passed differenlty in Hell, and that what a spanse of time she perceived as hours actually felt like days or weeks downstairs. Nell attempted a rough calculation and guessed that five days for her on Earth was equivalent to nearly two years for Crowley in Hell.

It was a long time to be gone, but Nell was sure that every minute of it was absolutely necessary. Crowley had been locked in the Winchesters' bunker for months— _Earth_  months, which meant decades in Hell. Just being absent from Hell that long would have been a disaster for his position as King, but Nell knew it was almost the least of Crowley's worries. More troublesome was the fact that Abaddon had been running amok while he was incapacitated, undoing his changes, undermining his authority, and turning large factions of demons against him. Crowley had managed to cut the head off the snake by killing Abaddon, but now he was faced with the daunting task of trying to bring Hell back under his rule, subduing or exterminating Abaddon's loyalists, and proving that his rule was secure and there would be no future extended absences of the King.

Nell's continued survival likely did not help much.

Crowley was right, after all, that he  _should_  have stopped caring for her by now. She couldn't bring herself to feel sorry that he hadn't, but she did acknowledge that though Crowley's attachment to her would make his campaign to reconquer Hell that much more difficult. Lola had told Abaddon about their connection, and Abaddon had told other demons. The rumors would have been bad enough, even if Abaddon had not also proven that Nell could successfully be used as a bargaining chip. Now, Crowley would have to work at least twice as hard to prove that he was not weak.

This was why Nell did not tell him about Cuthbert Sinclair's ghost. Crowley was busy, and Nell was busy, and she didn't want to bother him. Plus, Sinclair was still trying to convince her to resurrect him, which meant that he was being  _almost_  helpful in her attempts to translate what Metatron had tried so hard to hide on the angel tablet.  _Almost_  meaning that he directed her to some of the more useful dictionaries for dead languages and told her when she was reading something down or had copied a symbol down incorrectly, but also dropping hints that he knew quite a lot more, and that he thought it would be a rather fun challenge to translate all of the notes into readable English, if only he had a body.

Nell did not consider accepting this bargain for even a second. First, because she was  _so close_  to getting the thing translated herself that she did not want Sinclair to swoop in and finish it for her. But more importantly, because Cuthbert Sinclair was a dangerous sociopath and she did not trust him not to lock her up in one of the cells in his basement, let alone to keep his word about actually helping her.

Nell had told Sinclair this to his face the most recent time he had suggested that she resurrect him, and had been a little disturbed by the boyish, almost mischievous smile Sinclair had given her at the words. The look in the man's eyes had been one of pleasant surprise, as if Nell was a dog that he'd previously dismissed as stupid, and she had learned a new trick.

To Nell's relief, though, Sinclair had disappeared after she'd said it. She was certain he'd be back eventually, but for now she was happy for the reprieve.

When Nell heard a noise in Sinclair's main collection room a few hours later, she ignored it with practiced ease. She had grown used to Sinclair knocking about, seemingly testing and improving his abilities to manipulate the physical word in spirit form.

But then Crowley called out a lazy, smug-sounding, "Honey, I'm home." and Nell left the library to greet him with a smile.

The smell of demon blood when she entered the collection room was overwhelming. Nell realized very quickly that this was because Crowley was drenched in it.

For half a second, Nell did not breathe. She did not move. It was not an effort to restrain her hunger, although she certainly felt a twisting in her stomach, her teeth aching at not having tasted a drop of blood, demon or otherwise, in days.

No, she had to restrain herself from going to Hell and slaughtering every demon she came across. Because, for the half second before Nell registered that Crowley was completely uninjured and grinning, Nell had thought that it was  _his_  blood that had been spilled. And that was  _unacceptable._

If the irresistible will to avenge Kevin that burned in Nell's chest were a fire, it would be nothing but a little tea candle compared to the bonfire of rage that sprang to life at the idea of anyone harming Crowley. And though Nell felt it for only the briefest moments before realizing that the demon was fine, and unhurt, the remembered warmth and malice that had built inside her still lingered, waiting to be called forth in the future.

It was more than a little bit terrifying, Nell thought, because she was almost certain that if anything ever  _did_  happen to Crowley, she might just burn down the whole entire world.

"You've got red on you," Nell said after a minute, once she was certain she could open her mouth and release something other than a protective, animalistic growl.

Crowley sighed, but it seemed more like a noise of contentment than irritation or exasperation. "I was away far too of the demons started to get  _ideas_." He grimaced a little at how unbelievable stupid it was for any demon but him to have ideas, then shrugged. "Had to crack a few souls open. Still have a few hundred left to crack, as a matter of fact. I can't stay long. But first—I brought you a souvenir."

Crowley produced a thick manila file folder out from his suit jacket. Nell was quietly impressed to notice that there was not the tiniest bit of blood on it, even when Crowley offered it to her red-handed. Nell took it, and recognized the lettering on the front of the file as Enochian.

"What is this?"

"Research," Crowley replied, looking inordinately pleased with himself, "on the cage."

"Seriously?" Nell opened the file immediately, flipping through. Page and pages in Enochian, and in English, the latter all neatly typed. It was incredibly thorough. "That was fast."

Crowley hummed in not-quite-agreement. Nell looked back up at him, raising her eyebrows. "You already had this," she realized. "Why were you researching the cage?"

Crowley shrugged. "Curiosity… Insurance."

Nell suspected that last one was a little more important than the first, but it hardly mattered. She was already paging through the research again, excitement building. "This is amazing. This is  _perfect_."

"Glad you like it," Crowley said in a low voice. He did sound pleased, but it was mixed with something else that made Nell look up at him again. "But I've only got about an hour before I've got to get back. Did you want to spend that time reading? Or—"

Nell did not let him finish the question. She had not seen him in five full days. The file could wait an hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt obliged as I was writing this chapter to defend the level of logic Nell displays while feeling incredibly drunk due to the influence of the dead man's blood. I have based Nell's drunken state on my own state when very drunk: that is, extremely cuddly and lacking in inhibition, coordination, or mental filters, but still able to think mostly logically and retaining an amazingly above-average aptitude for spelling.


	14. Chapter 14

Success was underwhelming.

Nell had got as far as she could on her own after days of poring over notes and books, and she had managed to half-translate the thing. She was absolutely sure that the section mentioned the word  _angel_ several times, as well as the words for  _holy_ ,  _clay_ , and  _bone_. But then she'd hit a stopping point, brought on mostly by Nell's inability to make heads or tails of the way Kevin had written out some of the symbols.

So Nell had drafted a message to Linda Tran, asking for her to ask Kevin to take a look at the notes and to clarify what certain symbols were supposed to be. And then Nell had waited.

She hadn't been idle, of course. Her nervous energy at being  _so close_  to solving the mystery that had been nagging at her for weeks made it impossible for her to rest. She had occupied herself instead with the research Crowley had provided her on the cage. It was actually something of a relief to work on it, because unlike Kevin's notes, the file Crowley had provided was full of neat and tidy information, and was written in only two languages. And while Nell could not actually read Enochian, the resources in Sinclair's library and the translations in the file itself allowed her to muddle through.

She had not yet figured out a way to trap all the angels. Doing something of that magnitude would require more information than Crowley's research had provided—for example, how many angels did they need to trap? How would they lure them in? How small a space could all of the angels be packed into? Nell had heard the question  _How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?_ , but had never heard the answer to it, so there was no way to tell if her angel trap had to be as big as a football stadium or could be as small as a shoebox.

She had, however, designed two anti-angel innovations: handcuffs and bullets. Both of these were inspired by tools that had been used against Crowley—the cuffs they'd used to hold him in the dungeon and the devil's trap bullet Abaddon had shot him with. Nell had taken the basic principles of those and adapted them for use against angels using the research on the spells on Lucifer's cage.

Crowley's eyes had glittered with what Nell could only think of as  _gleeful malice_  when she'd showed him the specs she'd sketched out on one of his brief visits, and he had promised—after many other vows and promises and curses and exclamations, all of which Nell had savored with great relish—to have prototypes 'whipped up in no time'.

Nell guessed Crowley's idea of 'no time' was being measured in hell time, because she still had yet to see the prototypes when Linda Tran finally got back to her.

Kevin had come through once again, and had provided clarifications which were written in his mother's much-neater handwriting. And then, just like that, Nell had done it. She had translated the section that Metatron had tried so hard to hide, and she was…

Underwhelmed.

Nell had been expected a way to open up heaven again, maybe, or else secret to unlocking a great heavenly power. Maybe even the spell Metatron had told Castiel he would be casting, something that would return all the angels to heaven and shut them away for good.

It wasn't any of those things.

The passage read:

_Should ever the day come when angels threaten humanity, bring together clay from the holy land, a rib bone from a mortal man, and tears from an angel, to make the divine human._

It would make the angels human. And Nell was pretty sure, from what she knew of angels, that most of them would not like that. Metatron in particular would probably not like that, and that was almost certainly why he had tried to make that portion of the tablet illegible, and ordered that Kevin be killed. But still, it just seemed too… lenient.

Nell supposed she was biased. She had liked being human. She still  _missed_  being human, a lot of the time. And while this spell did have a sort of satisfying edge to it—forcing the angels to become the beings they failed to protect and love and respect the way they were intended to—Nell couldn't help feeling that many of them probably didn't deserve the chance.

But at least she knew, now, why Gadreel had killed Kevin. Now all Nell had left to do was to find and kill  _him_.

* * *

Crowley was in a good mood when he felt the summons. He had a handle on Hell. His enemies were dead, or suffering. And demon stupid enough to suggest that he was  _weak_ , or  _compromised_ , or even really to mention the word  _vampire_ , had learned their lesson. So he was smiling in satisfaction as he appeared in that damned dungeon the Winchesters had held him in for so long, curious to see what the Winchesters could possibly want  _this time_.

Then he got a whiff of the place, and wrinkled his nose. "What's that smell?"

Dean looked haggard. "What the hell's happening to me, you son of a bitch?"

Crowley thought he might have an inkling as to what was wrong. There wasn't much information on the Mark, after all, but what Crowley  _had_  been able to find out… still. He shrugged. "Liquor before beer? Bad taco? How should I know?"

"I can't turn it off!" Dean's eyes were bright. With fever? Or something else? "Ever since I killed Abaddon, it's—it's like this whole… other thing. I get this high, and I—" Dean choked on his words for a second. "I need to kill. I mean, I really, really  _need_ to kill. And if I don't—"

"You yak your guts out," Crowley finished for him. He was certain now: "It's the Mark."

"Meaning?" croaked Dean.

"It wants you to kill," Crowley explained simply. "The more you kill, the better you feel. The less you kill, the  _less_ better you feel."

Dean looked even more ill at that news. In a quiet voice he asked, "How much less better?"

The man already knew the answer in his bones. Crowley could see it in his eyes. The demon said, "One would imagine the  _least_ -best better."

"So, dead?" Dean shook his head in denial. "Cain had the Mark.  _He_  didn't die."

"Cain was a demon," Crowley said bluntly. "Your body's not strong enough to contain the Blade's power."

Dean's throat bobbed. "What if I got rid of it?"

Both of Crowley's eyebrows lifted. "You  _want_  to get rid of it?"

Dean's right hand clenched tight. A  _no_ , then. "What I want is Metatron."

Crowley hummed. "Go on."

"But I have to get through that door, and I have to get to the Blade," Dean's eyes were really shining now, all fever and murder and madness. It made a shiver of delight run up Crowley's spine. "And you're gonna help me."

"Am I?" Crowley asked softly.

It was tempting. He was more than a little enamored by the sheer  _bloodlust_  radiating off of Dean. Crowley would have liked to watch him kill Metatron. Crowley would have liked to watch Dean kill a great many people. It would be quite the show.

But Crowley was also a demon of his word. He'd told Nell that he would hold Gadreel down while she cut the angel's wings off, and if Crowley let Dean-the-killing-machine out of this dungeon there would be no stopping him. Gadreel would be dead before Crowley could ever keep his promise, which was unacceptable. Because for all that Crowley would enjoy watching Dean kill Metatron…

Crowley  _needed_  to watch Nell kill Gadreel.

"You owe me, Crowley," Dean growled at him. " _You_  did this to me. It's your fault I'm in here, now get me out!"

"I would, if I could, but I can't," Crowley said lightly. "Prior engagements. Do enjoy your stay, though. And I'll save you the trouble of counting—there are one hundred and eight ceiling tiles."

Crowley ignored the obscenities and threats Dean screamed at his back, taking no small amount of glee in the fact that he was now strolling out of that  _damned dungeon_ , uncuffed and unsupervised. It was a novel experience, and he took his time sauntering down the hall to the library, towards tense, hushed voices.

He paused in pleased surprise at the door to the library.

"Hello, Sam. Castiel," Crowley greeted, then raised his eyebrows at the third solemn-faced figure. The Winchesters never ceased to surprise him with the people they were willing to ally with. "And is that  _Gadreel_? This is quite the reunion."

"What are you doing here?" Sam looked like he'd very much like to stab him. "How did you even  _get_ in here?"

"Your brother summoned me," Crowley said, and relished the look of shock and worry that bloomed on the giant's face. "He had hoped that I would spring him from the damnable dungeon you've locked him in, so he could make off with the Blade and bury it in Metatron's skull."

"And you didn't?" Sam looked surprised. Crowley didn't know why. It wasn't like Dean had offered him anything in return. Crowley was in the habit of making deals, not giving out favors.

"Why should I?"

"That may be our best option," Gadreel said. He looked at Crowley as if he was something unpleasant and foul-smelling he'd discovered on the bottom of his shoe. Crowley felt rather the same way about him, but did not show it on his face. It wouldn't do to give away his intentions too soon, after all.

Gadreel went on. "Metatron's connection to the angel tablet gives him power. That Blade may be our only chance."

Sam and Castiel both seemed to be seriously considering this proposal, though both looked decidedly uneasy about it. Crowley found himself a little put out. He had known that he would get what he wanted, of course—he was  _Crowley_ , after all—but he'd been expecting more of a challenge. He realized, by the look on Sam and the angels' faces, that this was going to be  _easy_.

"As it happens," Crowley said, "your stab-happy brother is not the only, best option."

"What do you mean?" Sam asked warily, hope warring with skepticism.

"I mean that I have a way to stop Metatron, no Blade or Mark required." Crowley summoned a polished wooden box from where it had been sitting on his desk in Hell. He had been meaning to show them to Nell next time he came topside, but considering what Crowley would have for her in a few short hours, he didn't think she'd mind the delay. He sat the box down on the library table and opened it, then stepped back to let the trio admire his work.  _Their_  work.

"What is this?" Sam leaned closer and squinted at the glinting silver, but did not touch them. "Handcuffs? Bullets?"

" _Special_ handcuffs and  _special_  bullets," Crowley emphasized.

Castiel was squinting at them too, brow furrowed deeply. "They're covered in Enochian."

"Good eye, Feathers," said Crowley. "Yes—bullets and handcuffs, both forged from an angel blade and completely covered in the same powerful spells that are currently keeping Lucifer in his cage."

"Do they work?" Sam asked dubiously.

Crowley knew they did. His demons had  _borrowed_  on of the many angels currently running around on Earth like chickens with their heads cut off. Or at least, Crowley had intended to borrow the angel, and then release it after a nifty little mind wipe. He had tested the cuffs first, and the angel had been reduced to humanity with ease. The bullet had been too effective, however. Crowley had purposely aimed for a non-fatal shot, but it seemed the combination of the spells and the material had been too much for an ordinary angel. Angel and vessel had exploded spectacularly, and ruined one of Crowley's better suits.

Crowley also knew that no one in this room wanted to know all of that information. The Winchesters and their ilk might turn to Crowley for solutions when they were feeling desperate, but for the sake of their delicate sense of morality it was best for everyone that they never found out how the sausage got made.

So Crowley said instead, "Yes. Those same scratches are currently holding in two very unhappy archangels. One little scribe doesn't stand a chance."

"But the angel tablet," Gadreel objected quietly. "Metatron is using it to draw power. He is stronger than any archangel."

"These should break the connection," Crowley said, confident that they would.

"Should?" Sam repeated. "What, like the Colt  _should_ have killed the devil?"

"Should isn't good enough," Castiel agreed. Crowley rolled his eyes.

"He will be weakened, at the very least. Weak enough to be contained in holy fire, or a warded box, or that dungeon you seem to love so much. Unless," Crowley said, raising his eyebrows, "you have a better idea?"

Crowley knew they didn't, and the tense, heavy silence that followed his question just confirmed it.

Finally Sam sighed. "It's worth a shot." But then he shook his head in frustration. "But we don't even know where Metatron is right now."

It was Crowley's turn to sigh. "Honestly," he said, digging into his pocket to produce his phone, and the video his demons had located showing the angel playing Jesus in Muncie, Indiana, "What would you do without me?"

Metatron was in a homeless camp, playing out some ridiculous, attention-seeking martyr display. Crowley mostly did not care that the angels had fallen to Earth, except for the fact that they had killed Kevin, which had upset Nell. They weren't doing anything to mess up hell's business this time, which meant that Crowley could have been perfectly happy to leave them alone.

More than happy, really, because the angels weren't just  _not helping_  humanity, but actively harming them. Crowley had been delighted to find out about the whole debacle with Billy Boyd's mega-church and all the humans who'd exploded in the angels' mad search for suitable vessels. And then, on top of that, they were also killing  _each other_. Crowley appreciated violence and chaos in all of its forms, but watching his holier-than-thou enemies descend into madness, tearing at each other like dogs, was a special treat.

Metatron, though, annoyed him.

The angel was a lying, plotting, treacherous little snake. Crowley himself was  _also_  a lying, plotting, treacherous snake, but that was different. He was a demon. It was expected of him. Metatron was an angel. He was supposed to be above such things. He was encroaching on Crowley's territory and doing so with a frankly insulting lack of  _style_.

"Castiel," the bastard greeted when they'd finally managed to track him down and corner him away from the other humans in the homeless camp. "And Sam, and Gadreel… and Crowley." Metatron's eyebrows rose. He looked surprised and amused in the worst way, like they were children who'd shown a slightly more advanced vocabulary than he'd anticipated. "I have to say, I did  _not_  see this particular team-up coming. Where's your brother?"

_BANG BANG BANG BANG_

Metatron cried out in pain, blood blossoming from the four bullet holes in his upper chest. Sam, Castiel and Gadreel jolted in surprise. Crowley frowned as he lowered the gun. He'd been rather hoping the angel would have exploded.

"Crowley!" Sam said, reprimanding for some reason. On the ground, Metatron was rolling and howling in pain.

"What?" Crowley said, unrepentant. "Was I supposed to let him monologue? Don't just stand there—cuff him, before he digs the bullets out."

Sam opened his mouth as if to argue, then shut it, shaking his head with a sigh and moving to comply with Crowley's suggestion.

" _Ow_ ," Metatron said as Sam manhandled him into the restraints, seemingly over his pain and surprise enough to form words again. Crowley thought this was a shame. "What  _was_  that?"

None of them deigned to answer him. Sam turned to Castiel and Gadreel uncertainly and began talking about Metatron as if he wasn't there. Metatron's face was mottled white and pink, pain warring with rage.

Crowley took advantage of their distraction and withdrew the other set of handcuffs from his pocket.

"What now?" Sam asked. "Take him back to the bunker?"

"He should face justice in heaven," Castiel responded.

Maybe Gadreel would have made a suggestion. Maybe he would have agreed with Castiel. It hardly mattered, in the end, because Crowley cuffed Gadreel's hands behind his back in one swift motion.

Gadreel stiffened immediately and whirled around as much as he was able, though he stumbled. "What is this?"

"Crowley?" Sam almost looked surprised to still see him there. Crowley might have felt insulted, had he given a damn what Moose thought.

"What are you doing?" Castiel demanded, taking a threatening step forward. Crowley kept a wary on him, but wasn't too worried. This angel was far less dangerous ever since he'd had his wings clipped.

"Sorry, Moose. Castiel." Crowley took a firm hold on Gadreel's arm. The angel tried to tug away, but he was weaker now than an average human, and Crowley was much,  _much_ stronger than that. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you, but I promised a certain vampire that I'd hold this angel down while she cut his wings off. I'd hate to disappoint."

Sam's eyes widened. "Wait, Crowley, no—she'll kill him!"

"Well, yes." Warmth sparked in Crowley's belly at the reminder, and he smiled a smile that he knew from experience was positively  _devilish_. "That is the idea. Ta."

* * *

The portal spells which served as doors to Cuthbert Sinclair's home did not make a noise in and of themselves, but they did cause a soft change in the air that was audible to Nell's sensitive hearing, even from the library. She knew the sound meant that Crowley was back, and she was already rising to greet him when the smell hit her. There was Crowley's distinctive smell, which Nell had expected: exquisite blood, expensive brandy, sulfur and smoke. But along with it was another smell, also familiar, cold and sharp and almost minty.

 _Angel_.

Nell's interpretation of the smell as a threat was entirely unconscious. One moment she was headed out of the library to greet her demon lover, and the next she had lunged toward her work desk, where she was in the habit of keeping her angel blade. Her hand had only just gripped it when Crowley spoke.

"Nell, darling? I brought you a present."

He sounded completely relaxed and more than a little self-satisfied. Despite this, Nell still used caution when edging out into the hallway. Then she caught sight of the 'present'.

Nell recognized him immediately. It didn't matter that the face, the vessel was different this time. She recognized the smell, the tense posture, the look in the angel's eye.

"Gadreel," Nell breathed, absolutely certain and yet also disbelieving. A vein ticked in the angel's jaw. Without looking away from him Nell asked Crowley, " _How?_ "

"I keep my bargains," said Crowley.

Nell hadn't been prepared to see him. Not yet. She hadn't found a way to track Gadreel yet. Crowley hadn't even shown her the prototypes of the weapons she'd designed. She had been preparing mentally for a long search—a  _hunt_ —and then a fight.

She had  _not_ anticipated Crowley waltzing back in and presenting Gadreel's head on a silver platter. The emotional whiplash was disconcerting. Nell had gone from cautious and uncertain to viciously delighted in the space of a second, and the switch almost made her dizzy. Her head felt light, the way she'd felt when she was human and had indulged in too much champagne on New Year's Eve.

She felt like laughing, and she felt like bathing in Gadreel's blood.

"Downstairs," Nell rasped. "Cell."

Gadreel's eyes widened as Crowley started marching him forward. He spoke for the first time, in the same deliberate and particularly enunciated pattern which had sounded so odd coming from Sam's mouth.

"Nell," said Gadreel. Nell could hear the panic in his voice, and it sent a shiver up her spine. "You do not have to do this."

Crowley snorted at that, but said nothing, instead pushing Gadreel roughly down the stairs.

"I think I do," Nell said, then added, "And I want to, besides."

Crowley directed Gadreel into the first cell available at the bottom of the stairs, situating him in a wooden chair and securing him with ropes conjured with a snap of his fingers. Nell saw then what she hadn't been able to see before: that Gadreel's wrists were bound behind his back in gleaming silver cuffs.

"Are those—"

Crowley looked at her, followed her gaze, and then smiled. "I'm pleased to inform you that the prototypes work." Nell smiled back at him, stomach warm with triumph. Crowley squared his shoulders then and faced her with the same sort of red heat in his eyes that Nell had come to associate with particularly spectacular sex.

"I'm afraid," Crowley said slowly, "that because of Metatron's spell, there's hardly enough wing left to cut off."

Nell blinked, puzzled, before she recalled the precise words of Crowley's so-called bargain:  _I'll help you find Gadreel. I'll hold him down while you cut his bloody wings off, if that's what you want._

Nell's fingers tightened around the angel blade. "I'll make do."

Crowley's eyes flashed, and Nell braced herself. She truly believed for a second, based on the sheer  _lust_  in Crowley's gaze, that he was going to press her up against the basement wall and have her there. But he moved away from her instead, hands tucked casually in his pockets, and leaned against the wall of the cell where he could get a good view.

Nell stepped toward Gadreel, feeling a tense, wild excitement she had always associated with the pause at the top of the first big hill on a rollercoaster. She raised the blade, hand trembling.

Gadreel's eyes fixed on the motion. Maybe his mistook it as a sign of uncertainty or fear, because he said earnestly, "This is not who you truly are. I saw you, through Sam's eyes. You are a kind woman. You need not be a monster—consort with demons."

Nell made a swift, shallow cut to the angel's throat. Not enough to pierce an artery—just enough to make him bleed. Nell relished in the blood, and in the cry of pain from Gadreel.

"Are you in the habit of tossing kind people into rings of holy fire?" Nell asked lightly. Gadreel glared at her, jaw clenched. "And you call  _me_ a monster. I've killed—let's see." Nell paused to count on her fingers. "One vampire, two demons, and precisely  _no_ innocent humans." She turned back to Gadreel. "So if  _I'm_  a monster, what does that make  _you_?"

Nell sliced away Gadreel's shirt, wanting to see more breakable, sliceable skin. She made a long, thin, diagonal cut from Gadreel's heart to his hip, and savored the blood and the hiss that escaped him.

"You will kill an innocent man, if you kill me," Gadreel gasped. "My vessel. He is a good man. A faithful man. He has done nothing to you."

Nell paused a moment at that, waiting. That  _should_  bother her, of course—she knew that it should, logically, and that it would stop her in her tracks if she were still human. But she  _wasn't_  still human, and she wouldn't have been in this situation if she were. As it was, she searched her feelings and found that she couldn't care less if she had to kill an innocent man to kill Gadreel. And besides, if the man had actually knowingly  _consented_  to house Gadreel in his body… how innocent could he be?

"I'll send his family some flowers," Nell said with a shrug.

Gadreel did not speak again after that—not in  _words_ , at least. He seemed to be doing his best despite the pain not to make a sound. This disappointed Nell a bit, as she had quite enjoyed the auditory confirmation of his pain, but she didn't let it ruin her fun. She could still see, in the tension of his body, and the shuddering of his muscles, and the small, instinctive twitches that Gadreel could not control, that he was in pain. That she, Nell, was  _causing_  him pain.

It was unlike anything Nell had ever felt before. With each cut, each drop of blood, Nell felt a relief down to the very depths of her soul—or what was left of it. The madness and sense of duty that had driven her for weeks, that had spurred her to spend hours and hours poring over Kevin's incomprehensible scribblings, was slowly slipping away. It felt, quite literally, like a weight off her shoulders. Nell felt taller and lighter.

She smiled as she worked. After a time, Crowley spoke. His voice was low, almost a whisper, as if he was afraid of breaking some spell. Nell did not look at him, but she did listen.

"Fingernails, love," Crowley breathed. "Try pressing the blade underneath his fingernails."

Nell tried it. Gadreel screamed at last, a horrible, wailing sound. It was the most beautiful thing Nell had ever heard, and she laughed in delight.

Crowley's heart was beating very rapidly as she continued. He made more suggestions, and Nell followed them happily. Crowley was clearly an expert in torture, because while Nell's unguided attempts to draw as much blood as possible from Gadreel had made the angel  _hurt_ , Crowley's techniques made him  _suffer_.

Gadreel screamed, and shook, and even cried, tears cutting clean lines down his bloodied face. But he did not beg, and over time he seemed to grow exhausted. He still screamed and writhed when Nell hurt him, but there was less energy in it. Nell lowered the angel blade and stepped back to look at her masterpiece, thinking about what to do next.

Should she try to cut off what was left of the bastard angel's wings? Or should she just cut his throat, deep enough to kill him, but shallowly enough that the death would be slow and torturous?

"Finished?"

Nell turned to look at Crowley for the first time since she began at the question, and was once again surprised. The demon looked  _ravenous_. For all that he still lounged against the wall of the cell, there was no ease in the heat of his gaze. Nell doubted, if she killed Gadreel at that moment, that they would even make it to a bed. He'd probably just pull her to the floor right there, and they'd fuck, in full view of Gadreel's body, Nell still covered in blood.

Nell's stomach fluttered in pleasant excitement at the thought. She lifted the angel blade and turned back to Gadreel.

The look on the angel's face gave her pause, though. She had expected to see fear. Defiance, maybe, or even resignation. Instead, Gadreel's head was lifted, not in challenge, but a sort of… resigned acceptance. It was an almost welcoming look, almost  _relieved_.

Nell lowered the blade again, mouth twisting.

"No," she said softly. "I don't think I am finished."

Now  _there_  was the fear. Nell thrilled at the sight of it.

"I killed Kevin," Gadreel slurred desperately from blood-covered lips. "I slaughtered dozens of angels. I  _deserve_  to die."

"No," Nell corrected him, "You deserve to  _suffer_."

Gadreel flinched back, shuddering violently. "What of Castiel?" Gadreel said quickly. "Does he deserve to die?"

Nell furrowed her brow, more confused than anything. "Is that a threat?"

"Castiel is living on borrowed grace," Gadreel said, eyes bright and feverish. "When it runs out, he will die. But I can give him my own."

This was news to Nell. Although she did recall, from eavesdropping on Dean's phone conversations, that Castiel had been human for some length of time, and then had become an angel again when he had acquired some more grace, though it wasn't his own.

Nell did not particularly care about whether Castiel lived or died. This was not to say that she disliked him—he had a sort of charming fish-out-of-water thing going for him, even if Nell did find his bright blue, knowing gaze a little unnerving. But she had the same lack of empathy for him as she did for essentially any living creature that was not  _nest_.

Sam and Dean, however, loved Castiel. He was family to them, which, by extension, made him family of sorts to Nell as well. The Winchesters would be devastated if their angel died. And now, Nell might have a way to save him.

Nell sighed and turned, striding out of the cell and up the stairs. She washed her hands in the bathroom attached to the bedroom, not wanting to smear blood all over her phone when she made the call.

"You're going to let him live?" Crowley asked, sounding disappointed as Nell dried her hands.

"Let? No. Make? Maybe," Nell said. "You heard him. He's been locked in heaven's jail for thousands of years. He'd rather die than spend another thousand years in a cell. I'm not particularly inclined to give him what he wants."

"But you are considering it," Crowley said, a little flatly.

"If he's not lying about Castiel," Nell allowed. Then, puzzled, Nell asked, "Why do  _you_ want him dead so badly?"

Nell hadn't thought Crowley would care about the angel, apart from his obligation to help Nell get her revenge and Crowley's general interest in torture. But now, listening to him and looking at him, he seemed awfully eager for the angel to die.

"Oh, I don't much care whether Gadreel lives or dies," Crowley denied easily. The heat from the cell had returned to his gaze now. "I just want to watch you kill something."

Nell's stomach fluttered. "So romantic." She said it a little dryly, but less dryly than she'd intended.

Crowley did not blink. He stepped forward once, then twice, directly into Nell's personal space.

"I've been fantasizing about it ever since Abaddon brought you out. Seeing you on your knees, covered in demon blood…" "Beautiful."

Nell could understand that. She, too, had appreciated the sight of her lover covered in the blood of his enemies. But the fact that Crowley had looked forward to this, had thought about her on her knees, covered in blood… Now, clean hands or no, Nell was still pretty well covered.

Nell licked her lips and decided that calling Sam could wait. Holding Crowley's gaze, sank purposefully to her knees.

Crowley sucked in a breath. Nell reached for his belt and unfastened it quickly. Crowley held still, seemingly content to watch with eyes on fire as Nell yanked down and aside until his cock was free.

He was incredibly hard. Nell realized now that he probably had been for the entire time she was torturing Gadreel, and found herself a little impressed by his self-restraint. She kissed and licked the head of his cock, simultaneously proud that she'd elicited such a reaction and pleased that Crowley had held himself back. She had wanted to take her time with Gadreel. Now, she intended to take her time with Crowley.

Nell turned her gaze up towards Crowley, and found him watching her with rapt attention. His hands hovered near her head and shoulders, but did not touch. Nell reached out and took his right hand, directing it into her hair. Crowley sighed and fisted his hand in the curls as Nell sank down to engulf his full length with her mouth, never breaking eye contact.

Generally, Nell preferred not to make eye contact when doing this. It was a little hard on the neck, and since Crowley's cock was huge and magnificent, she generally liked to look at it while she sucked, so she could admire it and see what she was doing.

But Crowley had thought of her on her knees and covered in blood, and Nell knew that there was still a good splatter of it across her face. So she held the demon's eyes, and let him look at her, sucking his cock while covered in Gadreel's blood.

Crowley held her hair, but did not yank or push. Nell would not have tolerated such behavior, and Crowley either sensed that, was above it, or simply did not want to risk when the woman whose mouth engulfed his cock possessed a second pair of retractable and very sharp teeth.

Nell licked, and sucked, and held Crowley's eyes. It was a boon that, being a vampire, she did not strictly need to breathe. If Nell had been human, she would have been gasping and choking from the sheer size of him after less than a minute. But Nell was not human, and so she breathed as little or as much as she was able, relishing the scent of Crowley and of his arousal, the heat of his body and his cock in her mouth, and the harsh, needy breaths and the tightening of Crowley's fingers in her hair.

Crowley's fingers tightened almost painfully after a few minutes, and he guided Nell backwards, breathing a little raggedly.

"Up," he commanded. Nell smiled, and didn't move.

"Don't you mean 'rise'?" She teased. "My king?"

Crowley's eyelids fluttered for a microsecond. Nell assumed that this was because he was updating the fantasy in his mind:  _Nell, on her knees, covered in blood and calling him 'my king'._  Then Nell was standing, Crowley pulling her to her feet by the hair and then shoving her front-first against the bathroom counter with a force that would have bruised a human woman. Through the mirror, Nell saw the flick of the demons wrist which caused her pants and undergarments to vanish. Nell thought her shirt would be gone, too, had it not been so well-splattered with Gadreel's blood.

And then Nell didn't think much at all, because Crowley had pressed close against her back and grabbed her hips, thrusting into her with one sharp motion.

Nell cried out in pain and pleasure, the two feelings mixing together and blending as they so often did when she and Crowley were together. Nell got her hands underneath her, supporting the weight of her torso while Crowley held tightly to her hips, pounding into her in a rhythm so hard and precise it might as well have been set to a metronome.

All the while Crowley watched her in the mirror, eyes greedily drinking in her mouth as she gasped, her breasts as they bounced beneath her blood-covered shirt with each thrust of his own hips.

He looked  _unhinged_ , and Nell moaned at the sight. Crowley's hips faltered, then resumed, impossibly harder than before. Nell moaned again, and gasped, and kept her eyes on the mirror, watching. Watching Crowley fuck her, watching Crowley watch her, watching Crowley watch her watching him fucking her.

And covered in blood. Gadreel's blood.

Nell gasped, body tightening at the memory of spilling it, and of Crowley's whispered suggestions which had made the spilling so much more satisfying. Nell's eyes found Crowley's in the mirror again. The demon made a quiet noise that was almost a growl in the back of his throat, and then his hips snapped forward with angry, punishing force.

Nell shook.

She could not keep looking in the mirror as her orgasm took her. She couldn't even keep holding herself up on her hands, falling to her forearms with a cry as Crowley kept pounding into her, breathing hard but never faltering. Nell moaned and keened and whined, boneless and weak and loving every second.

 _This_  was what she loved—being so overcome with pleasure that she couldn't move, could do nothing but shudder and pant as Crowley drove himself mercilessly into her, taking pleasure from her prone, overwhelmed body. Each thrust of his cock was another wave of pleasure, lengthening her orgasm and driving her to heights that shouldn't have been possible.

Crowley's hand fisted in her hair again. He pulled her head up, and Nell let him, mouth still parted in a moan as he forced her to look up and meet his eyes in the mirror again.

Crowley's breath hitched. He thrust hard once, twice, three times, and then stiffened, closing his eyes at last as he came with a groan. Nell watched his face, fascinated and proudly pleased at the effect she had on him. At what they did to each other.

For a minute they stayed where they were, Crowley standing, still inside Nell, who was folded gracelessly over the bathroom counter. Then, slowly, they disentangled. Nell kissed Crowley deeply, lingering and savoring the taste of his lips and tongue and the scrape of his stubble against her cheeks, and then stepped past him to turn on the shower. Crowley stepped in after her without a word, eyes still glowing like coals.

They stood together under the spray, blood and sex slowly washing away.

"How did you catch Gadreel, anyway?" Nell asked after a while, voice still husky from their previous activities.

Crowley pressed a kiss behind Nell's ear and reached for the soap. "He was working with the Winchesters to stop Metatron. All too easy to snatch him up."

Nell felt the demon lathering soap on her back and shoulders, and allowed it with a small smile. "What about Metatron?"

Crowley's soapy hands came around toward the front of her chest, squeezing her breasts lightly before working their way further down. "Those bullets worked wonders."

Nell hummed in pleased satisfaction, and then in pure pleasure. Demonic stamina and recovery time were unreal. Luckily, so was Nell's.

* * *

Sam had left her messages. Nell didn't bother to listen to them all. The gist was the same in each one:  _Don't kill Gadreel. He helped us capture Metatron. He was just following orders_.

Nell had shaken her head at disbelief at the last one, but she had still called Sam. It was late, and there was a chance he'd be asleep. Nell almost hoped he was, and that the call woke him up. She loved the Winchesters, but they also drove her up the wall. She couldn't help wishing small inconveniences upon them.

"Nell?" Sam answered immediately, and his voice showed no sign of tiredness. Nell sighed in disappointment.

Behind her in bed, Crowley leaned close against her back, kissing and nipping Nell's neck and shoulder. Nell shot him a look, and Crowley smiled unapologetically, raising his eyebrows as if to say,  _Tell me to stop and I will_. Nell shook her head, lips tugging upward at the corners despite herself.

"Is Castiel dying?" She asked bluntly as Crowley's lips returned to their exploration of her neck.

There was a long pause. Then, "Where'd you hear that?"

So, yes. "Gadreel told me."

"He's still alive?" Sam sounded pleasantly surprised. Nell couldn't bring herself to feel offended, since the surprise was absolutely warranted.

"For now, yes. Turns out I can resist killing him if he actually  _wants_  to die." Nell grimaced, remembering the look of resigned acceptance on the damn angel's face, and then explained, "He's offered to sacrifice himself to save Castiel's life."

"Really?" Sam sounded hopeful for a second, but then sighed in defeat. "Cas would never accept that."

"But it is possible?" Nell asked, unswayed by what the angel would or wouldn't accept. "Castiel seems the practical sort. He might disapprove of my killing Gadreel, but he wouldn't turn down a bottle of ill-gotten grace out of honor, would he?"

Nell was glad that Sam did not launch into another lecture about why she shouldn't kill Gadreel. Instead he sighed again and said desolately, "It'd only buy him a few more weeks, anyway. He'll never fully heal unless he gets his own grace back. Metatron says there's still some of it left, but it's hidden and he refuses to tell us where."

Nell hummed. "If only you knew someone who knows how to hack an angel."

Sam was silent for a beat. Then he said, "Crowley? You think he'd help us with that? We don't have anything on him anymore."

Crowley had not stopped sucking on her neck when she'd spoken, so she assumed he'd be fine with it. Still, she turned her head to look at him, gaze questioning. Crowley looked a little exasperated, nodding impatiently before turning to nibble on the ear that was not currently pressed to Nell's phone. Nell tried to control her shudder.

"As long as you don't try to trap him or kill him or anything, I think he'd just be pleased to torture something," Nell said, a little breathlessly. Her words were rewarded with a small suck and a nip that made her eyes flutter.

When Sam spoke, his voice was a little strangled. "If you say so."

Nell glanced at the clock across the room. "We can be over there tomorrow, if you want."

"That'd be great," Sam said, sounding relieved. Nell heard him draw another breath, then hesitate. "Nell, there's something else you should know. About Dean."

Crowley's lips paused on Nell's skin. Nell furrowed her brow at Sam's worried tone. "What about Dean?"

"It's the Mark," Sam said quietly, desolately. "It makes him want to kill— _need_  to kill. The longer he goes without it, the sicker he becomes. He's been vomiting up  _blood_ , Nell." Nell sucked in a breath at that. Sam continued, "I've tried to research the mark, but I can barely find any mention of it, let alone how to remove it. I don't know what to do."

"I'll look through the library here," Nell said, trying to keep her voice steady. "If Sinclair had the blade, he's got to have something on the mark around here somewhere."

"That'd be great." Sam sounded grateful, but exhausted. "Thanks, Nell."

"Sure thing, Sam. I'll see you soon."

Nell hung up, feeling uneasy. She had never liked Dean's Mark, never trusted it, and now this. Lips twisting, Nell stood and crossed to her bag to retrieve fresh clothes. Behind her, Crowley sighed in disappointment.

"Back to the library?"

Nell nodded, then looked at him over her shoulder as she stepped into a fresh pair of underwear. "The faster you help me find the books we'll need, the faster we can come back here."


	15. Chapter 15

They arrived at the bunker at just past 8 in the morning. The weather was chilly, but there was a dewy anticipation in the air that Nell associated with early spring. Nell parked in the bunker's garage and exited the car with a box full of every book in Cuthbert Sinclair's library which contained any mention on the Mark of Cain. Crowley unfolded from the passenger seat, holding a small leather valise which smelled faintly of blood and metal.

The demon made for the door into the bunker proper with a spring in his step. He had been fidgeting with anticipation for the last hour of the drive, and Nell was surprised when he stopped at the door to the garage instead of waltzing directly through it.

Nell caught up to Crowley with a questioning look, and the demon grimaced.

"Iron," he said, nodding disdainfully to the door handle. "I  _could_  just blow the damn thing open, but—"

"Down, boy." Nell twisted the door handle and opened it wide for Crowley to step through. "Save the destructive urges for the angel."

Sam and Castiel were already waiting for them in the library, looking tired and unhappy respectively. Crowley descended the stairs in front of Nell and greeted them both cheerily.

"Moose. Feathers."

"Crowley," Sam said, seemingly making an effort to keep his voice neutral. Castiel said nothing, narrowed eyes fixed on Crowley with hardly a glance in Nell's direction. Sam, though, turned to her and said, more warmly, "Hey."

"Hey," Nell echoed, then hoisted the box of books in her arms. "I come bearing gifts."

Sam's lips made a tremulous movement that Nell thought might have been a failed attempt at a smile. His shoulders did relax the tiniest fraction, though. "Thanks, Nell."

Crowley cleared this throat and lifted his valise pointedly. "Shall I assume my patient is in the dungeon?"

Nell had a sudden vision of Crowley in a blood-spattered lab coat and had to repress a pleased shudder. She tucked the thought away in her mind for later and did her best to avoid everyone else's eyes by pretending to be very interested in the titles of the books in the box she held in her arms.

"No," Castiel said, speaking for the first time. He looked tired, too, Nell thought now. And sad… and worried. It was an almost palpable aura of despair that he shared with Sam. "He is secured in holy fire, in an unused store room. I will show you."

Castiel turned and stalked down the hall without waiting for Crowley to reply. Crowley raised his eyebrows, but followed. Sam did not move to follow them, and did not watch them go. Instead he looked at Nell with the intensity of a man trying to solve a puzzle. Nell slowly set the box of books down on a table in the library.

"Is something wrong?" Nell asked. Then, wondering if Sam's expression had anything to do with Metatron's location, asked, "Why isn't Metatron in the dungeon?"

Sam's gaze turned a little haunted. Voice rough and quiet, Sam said, "Metatron isn't the most dangerous escape risk right now."

 _Dean is_ , was left unspoken, but the words hung in the air regardless. Nell opened her mouth to ask him what exactly he meant by that, but Sam spoke first, sounding frustrated.

"What are you doing with Crowley?"

Nell blinked. She didn't think she'd been staring at the demon, or making any other facial expression which would reveal to Sam just how deeply she cared about Crowley. Then again, Sam might find it odd how unbothered she was around him when he'd kidnapped her and threatened her. Nell was not  _ashamed_  of her relationship with Crowley, but she did know that the Winchesters would not approve in the slightest, and had thus done her best so far to keep them in the dark.

Cautiously, Nell said, "I'm not sure I understand the question."

Sam strode forward, stopping just a few feet away. Nell had to crane her head to meet his eyes, and when she did Sam asked in a low voice, "Did you make a deal with him?"

"What?" Nell stared, and realized quickly that Sam was dead serious. "No, of course not! I don't think demons can even contract with vampires."

"Then why did he take Gadreel?" Sam asked immediately. "Crowley said… he said he'd promised to  _hold Gadreel down_  while you  _cut his wings off._ "

Nell's eyebrows shot up. She had not known that Crowley had shared that tidbit. But there was no hiding it, so she admitted, "Yes. He did."

"And what did you have to do to get him to promise that?" Sam asked insistently. "I  _know_ Crowley. He doesn't do anything unless there's something in it for him."

"You think I didn't get to know him, living with him for weeks?" Nell responded harshly, feathers ruffled. She took a deep breath to calm herself, then said, "He didn't ask for anything in return."

Sam didn't look at all convinced, but didn't argue that point further. "Then why are you still with him? I mean, I get it if you don't think you can stay here, with Dean…" Sam trailed off, seemingly unable to voice exactly what was wrong with his brother. "But with  _Crowley_?"

"You make it sound like we moved in together," Nell said, making a concerted effort to pitch her voice to suggest that she thought that idea was ridiculous, rather than very close to the truth. "I've been squatting in Cuthbert Sinclair's house, and Crowley drops in sometimes. You know, the super secure, super safe place with a library to rival this place? Great for research  _and_ not being abducted by demons. Do you know any other place like that? Besides here?"

"Demons beside Crowley, you mean," Sam said without missing a beat. His face was becoming clouded with suspicion now. "Why did Abaddon take you, anyway? We had no idea you were there, so it couldn't have been leverage against—"

Sam cut off abruptly, starting at Nell. Nell held herself very still, willing herself not to flinch or twitch or do anything else that might incriminate her.

"Us," Sam breathed at last, eyes wide. "It couldn't have been leverage against  _us_." His voice was rising in disbelief. "She took you as leverage against  _Crowley_?"

Nell forced herself to shrug. She tried to sound disinterested as she said, "Lola must have told her he'd gotten attached."

Sam narrowed his eyes at her, scanning her face intently.

"Was she right?"

Nell did not think she moved, but she must have. Or else Sam must have read the truth in her eyes, because his eyes widened again and he backed up a few steps, shaking his head.

"This is insane," Sam muttered. Nell decided it was time to redirect his attention before he asked any more uncomfortable questions he wouldn't like the answer to.

"Look, Sam, I appreciate your concern but I'm fine," Nell said, then added quickly, "I came here to help with  _Dean_ , remember?"

Sam's face darkened at the reminder. Nell's feet took her a step backwards without her conscious permission.

"You want to help Dean?" Sam asked, voice tight. "Come on."

Sam turned and stalked down the hall. Nell stood in the library for a second, feeling lost as Sam's tense shoulders retreated farther and farther away. She could understand Sam being upset—his brother was in trouble, and he thought Nell was… what? Fraternizing with the enemy, maybe, although Nell thought Crowley hardly counted as such now, when he was helping interrogate Metatron without asking for a single thing in return.

The anger Sam had wrapped himself in like a cloak seemed like an overreaction. So it was with wary, hesitant steps that Nell finally followed after Sam, ducking into the storeroom after him and halting where Sam had stopped just outside the entrance to the dungeon. He had his arms folded across his chest, and he nodded sharply to the door.

"Go on."

Nell did not want to. She didn't want to be near Dean now that he had the Mark, and she especially didn't want to be  _alone_  with him. But Sam's gaze was hard and unyielding, and Nell knew that he wanted her to see Dean alone, for whatever reason. Not knowing what she'd done to deserve it, Nell stepped into the dungeon.

The smell hit her first, and it almost sent her back through the door and into the storeroom. It was a foul odor, all sickness and death and  _rot_. It was a hundred times more powerful than the smell of blood and death that had lingered around the hospital all those weeks ago.

And there was Dean, shackled in the same chair Crowley had once been restrained, looking even worse than he smelled. His skin was pale and covered in a sheen of sweat, and his eyes were fever-glazed. Nell thought at first that he might have fallen asleep with his eyes open, so dead and empty they seemed, but was proven wrong when Dean spoke.

"Hey, Nell." It sounded like he'd been gargling with sharp rocks.

"Dean," Nell said, stepping as close as she dared. This ended up being about two feet away from the edge of the devil's trap in the ground. Seeing Dean in this state  _should_  have put her at ease, assured her that he posed no danger at the moment—but it seemed to do the opposite. "You look awful."

"Do I?" Dean didn't look particularly interested in an answer. "I feel worse." Dean shook his head, his eyes falling almost all the way shut, and muttered, "You tried to tell me this thing was bad news. I shoulda listened."

Now did not seem like the time to say,  _I told you so._  Nell swallowed and said weakly, "Just hang in there, okay? Sinclair had some stuff on the Mark in his library—we'll find a solution."

"I've already got a solution." Dean opened his eyes and locked gazes with Nell. It took every ounce of Nell's self-control to resist the urge to flee. "I need you to kill me."

Nell said nothing. She stared at Dean, certain at first that she must have misheard him. But no—his eyes were already dead, and cold, and resigned. He was serious. He wanted her to kill him.

"No, Dean." Nell's voice was so weak that she wasn't sure Dean would be able to hear her, but he must have, or else he read the denial in her face. His face darkened, and this time Nell did not bother to resist the impulse to back away slightly.

"One of two things is gonna happen here, Nell," Dean said, voice low and vicious. "Either this thing kills me, or I break out of here and kill someone else. And it won't matter who. You. Crowley. Cas. My brother."

Nell shook her head in disagreement, and in denial. Disagreement, because Dean might kill her, or Crowley, or even Castiel, but she didn't believe even the darkest magic in the world could compel him to kill his brother. Denial, because she would not kill Dean, and would rather die trying to help him than kill him herself.

"That's not going to happen," Nell said, and tried to make her voice sound strong and certain. She failed, and her voice cracked. "We'll find a way to stop it."

"I'm  _telling_ you the way to stop it," Dean said, eyes aflame with frustration and pure, murderous rage. Nell flinched. "I already know Sam won't do it. Cas won't do it, either. It's got to be you."

"I can't," Nell said, and flinched again when Dean's glare intensified. "I  _can't_ , Dean. Even if I wanted to, even if I thought it would be right, you  _saw_ me after Kevin. You're  _nest_ , Dean. I  _can't_."

Dean clenched his jaw for a long minute. Then he said, like a solemn vow, "Then you'd better hope this thing kills me before I kill you."

Sam was still waiting in the storeroom with his arms folded when Nell fled the dungeon, breathing hard. She was wishing desperately at the moment that she was physically able to cry, because she would have given anything for a release to the pain and hurt and panic that was swelling so rapidly in her chest that she felt like she would burst.

Mercilessly, Sam said, "Liked what you saw in there?"

Nell jerked back as if he'd slapped her. The hard expression on Sam's face slipped for half a second, then resumed.

"You  _know_  I didn't."

Sam nodded at the door to the dungeon and said firmly, "Crowley's the reason he's in there."

Nell did not believe that for a second. Sam had already proven himself to have a grudge against Crowley, and perhaps rightly so, but Nell couldn't see how Dean's situation could possibly be his fault. Forcing her voice to stay calm, Nell asked, "How so?"

"Crowley was the one who told Dean about the Blade and the Mark in the first place," Sam said fiercely. " _Crowley_  was the one who brought him to Cain, and convinced him to take the Mark."

This time Nell really did feel like she'd been slapped.

"No," she said, a soft, automatic denial, but there was less certainty behind it this time. She wracked her memory for evidence to prove that these allegations were untrue, and came up with nothing. It was getting a little harder to breathe.

"Yes," Sam said. He uncrossed his arms and stepped forward, looming over her. "He's the one who tracked down the Blade, remember? You really think he didn't know what was going to happen?"

That was true. Nell remembered well that Crowley had been the one to locate the Blade. And now she remembered that he had been quite free for some time before he had commanded Lola to abduct her. Nell knew nothing about what Crowley had been up to in the days after he had been released from the dungeon, and before Nell had seen him again. Before she left the bunker, because Dean had returned with the Mark.

It all made a sort of horrible sense, puzzle pieces Nell hadn't even known were puzzle pieces snapping into place with startling clarity. The brothers had not even been so keen to kill Abaddon before, instead focusing on the angel problem. It was only after Crowley was let loose that they refocused on that goal.

Crowley had said it himself: he was a salesman. Abaddon was a threat to his power in Hell. He needed her dead. It would not have been terribly hard to convince the Winchesters, with their eternal drive to save people from monsters, that Abaddon was the next Big Bad, and that they needed to kill her before she brought literal Hell on Earth. From there, getting Dean to take the Mark and use the Blade would have been easy. The Winchesters were stubborn. Once they were convinced that a monster needed to die, they didn't stop until it was dead, no matter the cost.

It made  _too much_  sense.

Nell's mouth worked, but no sound came out. What could she say?  _I was too in love with him to realize?_ She felt decidedly sick, and short of breath. She wondered vaguely if it was possible for vampires to have panic attacks.

Sam, meanwhile, had softened from his harsh, unyielding stance as he watched the horror dawning on Nell's face. He watched her mouth work silently, and her eyes shine with a wounded, lost look that made him think she might have started crying, had she been capable.

"Nell?"

The question was more to see if she was alright than to prompt her to answer his previous questions, but Nell squeezed her eyes shut and answered anyway, admitting painfully, "I didn't think."

Nell kept her eyes shut. She didn't want to see whatever expression would be on Sam's face. Judgment? Pity? Disgust?

Sam cleared his throat softly, and when he spoke it was with the light determination of someone who was politely changing the subject. "We should go take a look at those books you brought over."

Nell followed Sam out of the storeroom and back to the library, feeling numb. Sam started looking through the books with determined interest. Nell watched him pull book after book out of the box, remembering how Crowley had helped her retrieve them from the library. She had not thought about how he would know the best volumes to select, chalking the knowledge up to some combination of demon magic, knowledge of rare books, and the fact that he was  _Crowley_. Now she wondered if perhaps the demon didn't already know precisely what books to look for before the need ever arose. Whether he'd read them, and knew what was in them. If he knew  _more_  than what was in them.

Sam sat down to read, and Nell mirrored him, picking up a book at random. The going was slow. She couldn't focus. Her eyes would drift halfway down a page before she realized she hadn't absorbed a word, and then she would start again, and again, and then when she finally managed to interpret the words on the page she would realize that what she was struggling so hard to read was a detailed description of the Arc of the Covenant, and utterly irrelevant to the Mark of Cain and the First Blade.

Betrayal, Nell thought, felt an awful lot like being shot. First, surprise at the impact. Adrenaline, and disbelief. And then, finally, the pain. The pain of the entry, and the pain of something hard and merciless still digging into her.

Because she  _loved_  Crowley. She loved him so deeply and near-obsessively that it could not be natural. But she also loved Sam and Dean like her own brothers, and the thought that Crowley could have intentionally hurt Dean, or Sam, or both, was as painful as a bullet. Crowley was part of her, and Sam and Dean were part of her. She had lost something of herself when Kevin had died, and it had nearly driven her mad. This was almost worse, because she had lost nothing. Her love for Crowley and her love for the Winchesters both remained, but now they conflicted, and it felt as if they were literally tearing her apart.

Maybe she would really go mad, this time. She had felt close, at times, after Kevin and at the height of her desperation. She had held on because she had a purpose, because she could  _do something_  to avenge him.

But what could she do about this? To stand by Crowley would be a crime against the Winchesters, who she loved. To turn away from Crowley would be equally painful.

 _Damned if I do, damned if I don't_ , she thought, and could not restrain a sharp, bitter laugh. Sam glanced up at her, and then seemed to decide by the look on her face that the best thing to do would be to pretend he hadn't heard it.

Nell had been damned from the moment Crowley's blood touched her lips. This situation would not be so difficult if she weren't a  _vampire_ , if these people weren't her  _nest_. But if she wasn't a vampire, she wouldn't be in this situation in the first place. She would be dead in the Grand Canyon, or dead on the West Coast, or alive but dying soon, but she wouldn't be in a bunker full of demons and angels and monster hunters. She wouldn't have killed a vampire, and two demons. She wouldn't have listened as an innocent man died of blood loss in a hotel closet.

Maybe this  _would_  tear her literally apart, Nell thought, almost hopefully. Maybe it would kill her, and she would die.

But even that wouldn't be the end, she remembered, because vampires did not go to heaven or hell. Vampires went to purgatory, and Nell had been assured that it was not a place she ever wanted to go. Her spirit would live on, a monster among monsters, forever.

"I'm gonna go check on Cas," Sam said after a while. Nell didn't know how long it had been. She wasn't thinking. She certainly wasn't reading—she hadn't had the focus to so much as turn a page in… she didn't know how long. Nell nodded at him, and stared at her book.

She could hear everything, of course. She could always hear everything in the bunker, and now was no different, no matter how busy her mind was. Even as Nell pondered the sharp pain in her chest and in her soul, she could hear sounds from down the hall: Dean retching and snarling and cursing; muffled cries of discomfort and occasional grunts from what must have been Metatron; the pacing of Castiel's feet, and occasional low, harsh, skeptical words directed toward Crowley; and Crowley's pleased humming and the clatter of metal and squelch of blood and flesh as he cheerily performed the torture necessary to hack an angel.

Crowley loved torture. Nell was in love with a creature who loved torture. That made her a monster, didn't it?

With a jolt, she remembered wondering aloud just such a question, not so long ago, and Crowley's response:  _But you_ are  _a monster, darling. That's what I like about you._

Nell shook her head to dislodge the thought and stared hard down at the book she'd been neglecting. She was wrong to think that there was nothing she could do. She was hurting, and she really did think she might go mad, but if she was going to go insane, or die, then the last thing she did would be getting that damn Mark off of Dean's arm.

She turned back to the books with renewed focus, eyes flashing across the pages. Some of the books were completely useless, with barely more than a passing mention of the Mark, or Cain, or the Blade. A few were in languages she couldn't read. But those she could read, and those that looked at all promising, she did read, combing each page carefully for something,  _anything_  that could be of use.

If all else failed, she'd pray to fucking God to save him. He was out there somewhere, she knew now, and he'd saved the Winchesters once. He'd do it again, even if Nell had to drag him by the hair to do it.

Maybe he'd even kill her for her insolence. It'd be a win-win.

And so Nell focused on the books and ignored the sounds coming from the hallway, until sometime later Castiel entered the library and stalked past Nell without so much as a nod of acknowledgment, making a beeline toward the stairs and starting up them in hurried steps. Sam followed after him, but he slowed to a stop next to the table where Nell still sat.

"Metatron gave up the location of Cas's grace," Sam explained quietly. "We're gonna go get it."

"Right." He was going to leave her here, alone, with Dean and Crowley and a presumably brain-hacked Metatron. Nell did not think this was a very good idea, and did not much bother to hide this face when she said, "I'll be here, I guess."

Sam looked at her with sympathy, and patted her shoulder once. "We'll be back as soon as we can." He hesitated, then added softly, "Keep an eye on Dean."

Nell nodded, and then watched him tromp up the stairs after Castiel. The door to the garage shut, and then the Impala's engine flared to life, and then they were driving away.

Crowley emerged from the hallway, using a dark silk handkerchief to clean small splatters of blood off of his face. Nell could not help it—her stomach fluttered at the sight.

Crowley spotted her at the table and strode over in his easy, confident, prowling walk. He rounded behind her chair, and then leaned down into her personal space, breath tickling her ear as he asked, "How goes the reading?"

Nell closed her eyes.

Crowley was acting like nothing had happened. Of course he was. To him, nothing had happened. No shattering revelations had been made. He had just had a wonderful time, indulging in a bit of torture, and now he was satisfied with a job well done.

Nell flipped the book closed and stared down at the aged leather cover. She traced it carefully, keeping her eyes on the tome as she said quietly, "You helped him get that mark. You must have known what it was going to do to him."

Crowley said nothing. Nell waited a beat, then turned in her chair to look at him, eyes searching his clever face for the truth. Finally Crowley said, "I didn't know."

He placed a peculiar emphasis on the last word which made Nell think that the sentence was only  _technically_  true.

"You  _suspected_ ," Nell accused lowly. "And with you, that's as good as knowing."

Crowley smiled, as if hoping he could deflect Nell's anger with an excess of charm. "You flatter me."

Nell stared at the smile in disbelief. "Dean is going to  _die_."

Crowley's eyebrows rose a little, then dropped again. "He doesn't  _have_ to," Crowley dodged. "A few swings of the blade, he'll be good as new. For a day or so, at least."

Nell stood from her chair abruptly, and Crowley backed up a step. "We can't just let him go around killing people forever!"

"Why not?" Crowley asked immediately, seeming entirely unbothered by the idea. "If it's morality you're worried about, there's plenty of rotten apples out there. The monsters he so loves to hunt. The sex offender registry. Wall Street. I've still got a list of enemies still, if he's feeling particularly helpful."

Nell started shaking her head mutely halfway through Crowley's little speech. She couldn't believe it. She couldn't believe  _him_. Or rather—she could, but she didn't want to.

"How could you do this to your allies?" Nell asked roughly.

Crowley's lips twisted in discontent. "He wanted to power to kill Abaddon, and I gave it to him. It's not my fault he didn't take the time to read the fine print."

"Like you knew he wouldn't," Nell said flatly. "Like you  _planned_ he wouldn't."

Crowley stared at her, looking a little lost. "What do you want, an apology? I'm a  _demon_. He's a  _Winchester_." He said it like these facts were obvious, and that Nell was the idiot for questioning the natural order of things.

Maybe she was. She certainly felt like an idiot now.

"I want you to fix it," Nell said solemnly.

"I can't."

Nell stared at him unblinkingly. "Can't? Or won't?"

Crowley's shoulders heaved in frustration. "I don't know  _how_. There's only two living things that know how that damn Mark works: Cain, and Lucifer."

Nell would knock on Lucifer's cage herself if she had to, if it would save Dean. But she did not say so. Instead she said, "You tracked Cain down once."

"And I'm not keen to do it again." Crowley's voice was rising now. "He was single-handedly slaughtering a few hundred demons when I saw him last! He resisted the call of the blade for a few hundred years, but now he's tasted blood again he'll never stop. Not again."

"So you're just going to let Dean die?" Nell asked. Crowley looked at her and did not blink, and the horrible truth hit her like a physical blow. "You  _planned_ to let him die all this time."

A small line had formed between Crowley's brow. He asked, sounding genuinely puzzled, "Is that really so shocking to you?"

It shouldn't have been, but it was. Nell swallowed and admitted weakly, "I guess I thought you were better than that." Crowley twitched, as if in discomfort. Nell curled in on herself and muttered, "Sam was right."

Crowley stepped forward again, voice low and insistent. "What would you have had me do? Let that murderous harlot live? Let her steal my kingdom from under me? She would have unleashed Hell—literally."

"I can think of about a dozen ways to stop a demon as powerful as Abaddon without needing to kill her," Nell said simply. "As clever and sadistic as you are, you could probably come up with more." Crowley looked conflicted about whether to interpret her words as a compliment or not. Nell shook her head. "You  _wanted_ this. Why?"

Crowley shrugged minutely. "What can I say? I like to see my enemies suffer and perish."

Nell knew that well enough. She liked that about him, even. Or had, until now.

"Are the Winchesters your enemies, then?" Nell asked, but did not pause to wait for an answer. "Am  _I_  your enemy? You've done so much to help, and then you turn around and fuck it up. Every time you have a chance to redeem yourself, you fuck it up."

Crowley twitched. When he spoke his voice was carefully light. "Whatever gave you the impression that I'm looking for redemption?"

Nell did not heed the slight danger in Crowley's soft tone, or the narrowing of his eyes. She said firmly, " _You_  did. You told me so."

Crowley went still. Then he breathed, "I was hardly in my right mind."

"So I can't trust anything you said under the influence?" Nell said, voice rising in disbelief. "You kept your promise about Gadreel."

Crowley grimaced a little, looking vaguely insulted. "I keep my bargains."

Nell shook her head, not believing that for a second.

"You didn't have to," she said, voice hard and certain. Crowley did not blink. He was eyeing her now as if she was a venomous snake that might strike out and bite at any moment. Nell clenched her teeth. "I'm right, aren't I? That wasn't really a deal, but you did it anyway."

Slowly, still holding her eyes, Crowley raised his hands into the air in a gesture of surrender. "You got me," he said after a moment. "I didn't have to."

Nell said nothing. Crowley's tone had suggested he was not yet finished. Sure enough, he continued in a fierce, low voice.

"I  _wanted_ to." Crowley took another step forward, bringing himself within arm's reach again, staring down at Nell with eyes that burned like hellfire. "I wanted to watch you tear him apart. I wanted to watch you paint the walls with his blood, make him hurt, make him scream for mercy."

Crowley paused for breath. His pupils were blown wide and his heart was beating rapidly, but Nell wasn't sure if this was a sign of anger or arousal just from voicing those desires aloud. Maybe it was both.

Crowley stepped so close that Nell could feel the heat of his body. "And then I wanted to make  _you_ scream for mercy," he hissed lowly into Nell's ear. "And I get what I want."

Nell closed her eyes. "Not anymore, you don't."

"No?" Crowley's voice was light. He wasn't taking her seriously. Nell's eyes snapped open, and she pushed hard at Crowley's chest, shoving him backward. Crowley backpedaled a few steps, though Nell guessed this was more from surprise than from the strength of Nell's blow.

"You can't have it all, Crowley," Nell spat. She didn't know how he hadn't realized this before. "You can't play the hero with the Winchesters and be the King of Hell at the same time. They're opposing goals. You have to sacrifice one for the other." Nell shook her head again in disgust and said finally, "And you have."

Crowley's lips drew briefly back, showing a flash of teeth in a silent snarl. Then he calmed himself, straightening up confidently and regarding Nell with a superior, narrow-eyed gaze. He looked kingly, she thought then. It must be an air he affected when trying to impress other demons.

"Hypocritical of you," Crowley said, each word careful and precise. "You can't play the human with the Winchesters and be a demon-blood drinking vampire at the same time. They're opposing goals."

He'd echoed her own words back to her, sounding self-satisfied. He spoke as if he thought she would contradict him.

She wouldn't. She couldn't.

He was right.

She could not support both Crowley and the Winchesters after this betrayal. Balancing her loyalties had been hard enough before, but now it was untenable. If she continued to see Crowley, after what he'd done to Dean, it would feel as if she were betraying Dean herself. She had already watched Sam kill Kevin, however controlled he had been at the time. Now, Crowley's actions were killing Dean. She couldn't stand to see the people she loved tearing each other apart any longer; it was tearing  _her_  apart, and it couldn't continue.

"You're right. I can't." Nell's words seemed to ring and echo through the library. Crowley's jaw actually dropped. Even a day ago, she would have been delighted to elicit such a reaction. Now it just made her sad, a mournful ache that stemmed from the bleeding tear in her soul.

Nell drew in a deep breath, steeling herself, and then added softly, "You should go, before Sam and Castiel get back. Now that they've got Castiel's grace, they'll have no incentive not to kill you."

Crowley stared at her. Disbelief melted into burning anger, which shifted into hurt, and then into a resigned acceptance.

This last expression on his face was physically painful for Nell. She wanted nothing more than to gather him close and tell him that she didn't mean it, that they could work this out, that she loved him and didn't want to hurt him.

She didn't. She held still, and watched as Crowley regathered the kingly air about himself like a cloak. He nodded once, stiffly, and then he was gone.

Nell stared at the spot where he had stood and trembled. She wanted him to come back. She felt like he had taken some vital part of her with him, and she was certain that she would die without it. She had dealt herself a mortal wound. She was irrevocably fractured, beyond repair.

She stood there, and stared, and considered surrendering to the pain. She considered letting herself fall to the floor, and sob, and shatter. There would be no going back if she did, no putting herself back together.

She was certain she would die, if she did. If not literally, then figuratively. She had lost a part of herself, and if she did not hold on to the broken scraps that were left, she would lose herself entirely. The Nell that she was now would die, leaving only… what? The parts of her that could not be killed, she supposed. Instinct. Hunger.

Nell remembered the monstrous depictions of vampires in the Men of Letters' books, all teeth and carnage and bathing in blood. If she surrendered now, she would lose the part of herself that was a person. She would become a monster, a  _true_  monster. And then Sam and Dean would have to track her down, and cut her head off.

She almost did it. The thing that stopped her was not the thought of becoming a monster, or of her own death, or of Sam and Dean being forced to kill her, or even of purgatory.

The thing that stopped her was that, if she did not get back to reading soon, Dean may not be  _able_  to chop her head off.

It was enough to pull herself together. Nell took a deep breath, and tucked the horrible, soul-deep pain into a box in the corner of her mind, and then she sat back down at the table in the library to read.

Sam and Castiel returned hours later. The angel looked better, less tense, and smelled more like winter than ever. A successful mission, then.

"Everything okay?" Sam asked as he reached the bottom of the stairs.

Everything was not okay. Nell shrugged noncommittally.

"Okay..." Sam said slowly, looking a little unsettled by Nell's blank stare and silence. He glanced around. "Where's Crowley?"

Nell stared at him blankly, seeming not to understand the question at first. She opened her mouth, then paused. Made a painful rasping sound. She closed her mouth, cleared her throat, and then tried again.

"Gone."

Sam's brow furrowed. Even Castiel was staring at Nell in something that resembled concern. Nell opened her mouth again, though she had no idea what she could possibly say.

In the end, she did not decide what to say. A word tumbled out of her mouth without conscious thought, panicked and high: " _Dean_."

Sam and Castiel did not know why Nell said it so abruptly, or why she shot up from the table and took off down the hall towards the dungeon at a mad sprint. They simply reacted to her panic and followed after her as quickly as possible, babbling questions that Nell did not slow down to answer.

They could not smell the blood.

Nell flew through the door of the dungeon and halted for a moment, staring and uncertain. For a second she was convinced, despite her complete inability to sleep, that she was in the middle of a nightmare.

Dean had knocked himself to the ground. He had worked the shackles that bound his wrists further down his forearms, exposing the thin flesh. The area was mangled now, covered in the blood pouring out of jagged wounds. Bites, not cuts. Dean's mouth was painted red, teeth stained by his own blood.

He was trying to kill himself. He had ripped his own wrists open with his teeth.

Sam and Castiel arrived. They, too, froze in horror, but only for half a second. Then they barreled past Dean, Sam holding his snarling brother down while Castiel quickly pressed his hands to Dean's bloodied wrists, looking distraught even as the smell of winter filled the air and Dean's skin knit back together. Dean cursed and snarled and screamed, teeth snapping at brother and angel alike. Castiel hesitated, then pressed a hand quickly to Dean's temple.

Dean sagged into sleep. Even with his eyes closed and his body limp, he looked tortured.

The dungeon was quiet for a second, filled only with the sound of Sam's ragged breathing. Castiel was staring at Dean's still form with something like mourning.

Finally Castiel said grimly, "Dean will not last much longer like this."

Sam looked up from Dean's blood-spattered face and stared at the angel desperately. "He'll get better if he kills, right? So, we let him." Castiel did not immediately shoot down this idea, so Sam rushed out quickly, "We can let him kill Metatron. We already got what we needed from him, right?"

Castiel shook his head once. "We cannot kill Metatron," he said, sounding genuinely upset about this. "He is to be imprisoned in Heaven. We have already held him too long—if he is not returned to Heaven's prisons, civil war may break out again."

"We can't just sit back and do nothing!" Sam's voice rose into a shout. Castiel did not flinch, simply looking at Sam with wide, sad blue eyes. Sam whipped around to look at Nell, still frozen in the doorway. "Did you find anything in those books, anything at all that'd be helpful?"

Nell shook her head slowly. She'd gone through all of them, but found nothing of use. Nothing they didn't already know.

Sam did not allow himself to be discouraged. He pressed on. "What about Crowley? He told Dean about the Mark, he must know  _something_."

Nell felt a little stab of pain at the name, at the reminder, and shoved it into the dark corner of her mind where she'd crowded the rest of her hurt. Hollowly, Nell said, "He said the only people who know how it works are Cain and Lucifer."

Sam flinched at the second name, then swallowed hard. "So, we track down Cain."

Nell stared at him distantly, and then voiced a thought that had been lingering half-formed in the back of her mind for a few hours. "We may not have to. There's one other person who might be able to help us."

Sam stared. Castiel turned to look at her with wary hope. Sam asked quickly, "Who?"

"Cuthbert Sinclair."

Sam stared some more, then reminded her, slowly, as if he thought Nell might have gone funny in the head, "But Dean killed him."

"Yes," Nell agreed dully. "And like Kevin, he's been stuck in the veil ever since." Sam sucked in a sharp breath, and Nell nodded. "He's been trying to convince me to resurrect him practically as long as I've been staying in his house."

"You think he knows a way to remove the Mark?" Sam asked, though Nell could already tell that Sam would probably go as far as to kill himself to talk to the dead man on the mere  _chance_  that he would have information that could save Dean.

Nell shrugged noncommittally again. "He is exceptionally smart. I don't think he would have tried to collect Dean if he didn't have some sort of solution."

Sam's face firmed with resolve. "Let's try it."

They already had everything on hand in the bunker that they would need to summon Sinclair's spirit. It took less than ten minutes to prepare everything, and then Sam, Nell, and Castiel were gathered in the library, watching a bowl of arcane ingredients emit oddly sweet-smelling smoke into the air.

The temperature dropped a few degrees.

"Let me guess," Sinclair's spirit drawled, arms folded in front of his sharp suit. "You've run into a spot of trouble with the Mark of Cain."

Sam did not beat around the bush, even to make an attempt at an apology for killing the man. "Can you remove it?"

Sinclair's eyebrows raised. "Remove it? No. No, I don't think there's any way to do that. It can only be transferred; never destroyed."

Sam's shoulders sagged in defeat. Sinclair gave him a scathing look that Nell was intimately familiar with, and which she knew meant that the spirit was thinking very uncomplimentary things about Sam's intelligence.

"But I can keep it from killing your brother," Sinclair added, leaving unsaid,  _Since you didn't have the brains to ask._  " _And_  keep your brother from killing… well, everyone." Sinclair smiled his charming, soulless smile.

Sam straightened up attentively and demanded, "How?"

Sinclair's smile widened, his eyes crinkling at the corner, all secretive and satisfied. "I'm sure Nell here's already told you my price." Sinclair glanced toward a pen on the table, which lifted of its own accord and started scribbling across a bit of notepaper Nell had left out. "Here is what you will need for the resurrection ceremony."

"Dean comes first," Castiel said, speaking for the first time. "Tell us how to save him, then we will perform your ritual."

Sinclair looked at him blandly. "And I should just take your word for it, should I?"

"Yes," Castiel said simply. Sinclair looked at him with a small amount of wonder, and then at Sam, and then finally at Nell. He raised his eyebrows at her, as if to say,  _Are they really this stupid?_

Nell shrugged at him silently, and nodded.

"How do we know you won't run off as soon as we've done the spell?" Sam demanded. "Or try to 'collect' Dean again?"

"Because I have no interest in being stabbed by that blade twice," Sinclair said smartly. At Sam's continued stubborn look, Sinclair sighed and cast his eyes to the ceiling, as if asking a higher power for patience. Then he leveled Sam with a falsely patient look.

"Look here, son: you'll need to resurrect me first  _anyway_. None of you are skilled enough at magic to perform the spells required to bind that mark. I am, but I will need a body to perform it." Sinclair spread his arms appealingly and smiled his charming sociopath smile. "Now. Do you want to save your brother, or not?"


	16. Chapter 16

"Oh, great." Dean groaned. "Now I'm hallucinating."

"You're not hallucinating," Sam said from the edge of the devil's trap in the floor, where he, Nell, and Castiel all stood. Sinclair had said that it would be best if Dean stayed in the trap until he was finished with his ritual, although he had been very tight-lipped as to why.

Dean lolled his head to look at his brother, and then to look at Sinclair, who was methodically arranging a number of ingredients and tools on the table inside the circle. Dean stared at him through narrowed eyes for a second, seemingly not believing that he was real.

Finally he croaked, "Then what is this asshat doing here?"

Sinclair straightened a little, watching Dean with eyes narrowed in distaste. Nell would have wagered money that it was the first time that Sinclair had ever been called an  _asshat_.

"Saving your life," Sinclair informed Dean tersely.

Dean furrowed his brow. "What?" He turned to Sam again. "What's he talkin' about?"

"Bert created a spell that will bind the Mark," Sam explained. "Stop its effects."

" _Bert?_ " Dean repeated, voice rising in disbelief.

The nickname was not a gesture of affection or familiarity, but a condition made by Sinclair himself. Sam had attempted to call the man by the alias he's used, Magnus, and Nell had referred to the man by his surname. This was partly because, despite their tenuous agreement, none of them were really on a familiar, first-name basis. But the real reason was because… well.  _Cuthbert_.

But Sinclair had demanded, in a patient but sharp tone that brooked no argument, that they call him  _Bert_. Nell did not know if this was an attempt to force familiarity where it did not exist, or if it was just a power play. She didn't much care either way, as long as he did what he'd promised.

"How do I know this isn't some kind of trick?" Dean demanded, eyeing Sinclair suspiciously.

"You don't," Sinclair said cheerily. "Now, hold still."

Sinclair had whipped together some kind of salve from a number of obscure, rare, and expensive occult ingredients. At Sam's whispered request, Castiel had looked them over carefully before the process began. The angel had not been able to say for certain whether the ritual would work, but he had told Sam that he was reasonably confident that none of the ingredients would harm or kill Dean.

Now, Sinclair pushed Dean's shirt away from the Mark and rubbed the salve into the skin there, murmuring softly. Dean grimaced, but at a sharp, pleading look from Sam, said nothing. When Sinclair took his hands away from Dean's arm, Nell though the Mark of Cain seemed to shimmer slightly, as if she was looking at it through a haze of heat.

Sinclair pulled a roll of bandages from the table then and began to wrap them around Dean's arm. The gauzy fabric was covered in carefully-written spells, which Sinclair had written himself over the course of several hours the night previous in what Nell was fairly sure was lamb's blood. He had also covered the bandages with a minty-smelling substance that Nell thought might have been derived from holy oil. Now he wound the fabric securely, covering Dean's entire forearm and blocking the Mark of Cain from view. All the while he chanted lowly, producing noises that sounded more like some sort of sonorous instrument than a human voice.

And then Sinclair stopped chanting, wrapped a rosary around Dean's wrist like a bracelet, and sat back, brushing off his hands.

"There. All done."

Dean sagged in his chair a little, sighing with what sounded like relief. His eyes slipped closed.

"That's it?" Sam sounded a little doubtful. Sinclair looked down his nose at him disdainfully.

"You have just been witness to an unprecedented level of spellwork, which is even now holding back an evil force from the dawn of creation," Sinclair said, clearly more than a little irritated that Sam was questioning, and not praising, his brilliance. " Is that not impressive enough for you?"

Sinclair shook his head and gathered up the ingredients on the table, striding out of the room with muttered insults about hunters and the Men of Letters and what the world had come to.

Sam ignored him and rushed into the devil's trap to check on his brother. "Dean? How do you feel?"

Dean blinked his eyes open, looking drowsy and relaxed. "I feel…" He paused, and then shook his head in amazement. "Good. Like,  _good_ , good." Dean swallowed. "I didn't even realize how angry I was all the time until it just suddenly vanished."

Sam unfastened the restraints holding Dean to his chair and pulled him into a fierce embrace. Dean clutched him back tightly. Beneath Nell's sense of relief, something in her ached painfully at the sight.

A loud growling noise filled the dungeon, loud enough that Sam pulled away from Dean in surprise. Dean coughed to cover embarrassment and said, "I could really go for a burger, though."

Sam laughed, the sound high and almost hysterical with relief at the sudden return to normalcy. "I think we can manage that."

Dean grinned and stepped forward, rubbing his wrists. Castiel stepped forward and laid a hand on Dean's shoulder, squeezing it with clear affection.

"I am glad you're okay, Dean," Castiel said sincerely, then continued, a little regretfully. "I must go now. I have already delayed returning Metatron to heaven longer than I should have."

Dean's face fell a little, but he nodded in understanding. Nell furrowed her brow, wondering why Castiel's words had made her feel as if she was forgetting something.

"Oh," Nell said softly. All three men turned to face her, expressions curious. Nell cleared her throat, feeling a little awkward. "With everything that's been going on, I forgot to mention it before… I figured out what Metatron was trying to hide on the angel tablet."

All three stared at her. When she did not immediately continue, Sam asked quickly, "Seriously? What was it?"

Nell shrugged a little, still underwhelmed by what she'd uncovered, and feeling numb besides. "Another spell. To turn the angels human."

Three sets of eyes went wide in surprise. Castiel stepped forward, meeting Nell's gaze with an intensity she had not expected and frankly did not appreciate.

"That's possible?" Nell could not tell the source of the tension in the angel's voice. Hope? Anticipation? Anger? She didn't care enough to parse it out.

"How would that even work?" Sam asked, brow furrowing. "I mean—angels have to have vessels, right? So would they just spring up? Or would they be born, like Anna? Would they remember—"

Nell shook her head mutely, and Sam eventually stopped babbling questions. "I don't know the details. All I got was the gist of the thing and the list of ingredients."

Castiel narrowed his eyes thoughtfully and turned his eyes toward the door. "Metatron may know."

Dean straightened, eyebrows shooting up on his forehead. "Wait, Cas, are you seriously considering this?"

"I have to," Castiel said, shooting Dean a look that was half impatient, half frustrated. "Angels on earth have caused nothing but trouble. Even now they are leaderless, broken, divided."

"They're not leaderless, Cas," Dean argued. "They have you."

Castiel shook his head sharply. "I never wanted to lead the angels. I still don't want to." He hesitated, then said carefully, "It might be better, for heaven  _and_ earth, if there were no more angels."

"I can't believe this," Dean said, beginning to pace.

Sam said cautiously, "Are you really sure it's a good idea to try a spell from the tablet? I mean, last time…" Sam trailed off, not voicing that casting a spell from the tablet had gotten them into this mess in the first place.

"That was different," Castiel insisted. He seemed to have already made up his mind. "That was a spell of Metatron's creation. This is the word of God. If He put the spell on the tablet, He must have foreseen a future where it might be used. Where angels were no longer needed."

"And what if it's dangerous?" Sam tried. "The trials to close the gates of Hell were gonna kill me. The spell to cast the angels down from heaven  _nearly_ killed you."

Castiel set his jaw, and Nell saw, if neither of the Winchesters did, that this possibility did not change Castiel's mind in the slightest. The angel turned to face Nell again. "What are the ingredients for this spell?"

Nell wondered for a moment whether she should tell him. But she was tired, and numb, and she just didn't care enough about what happened either way to withhold the information. In a monotone, she recited, "Clay from the holy land, rib bone from a human man, tears from an angel."

Castiel's shoulders straightened, lips thinning into a determined line. "Simple enough."

"And it didn't say anything about sacrifices?" Sam asked, voice going high with concern. "Or—or anything else?"

Nell shrugged again. "Not from what I could make out in Kevin's notes."

Sam did not like this answer, and neither did Dean. They both tried to talk sense into Castiel as they exited the dungeon. But the angel was stubborn. The most the brothers managed to do was get Castiel to agree to return Metatron to heaven and ensure that it was open to receive souls again before he attempted the spell.

"Well, chaps," Sinclair said, interrupting the argument as it entered the library, Nell trailing silently behind. "It's been a pleasure. Give me a ring if you ever need some more spellwork done, won't you? I could use the entertainment."

Nell blinked at Sinclair where he stood at the bottom of the stairs. He appeared to have collected the box of books she'd brought over from his house.

"Uh, sure," Sam said. "Thanks, again." He seemed conflicted about whether to be grateful to Sinclair, who had saved his brother, but also attempted to kidnap him.

"Wait up," Nell said hoarsely. Sinclair stopped with one foot on the bottom stair and turned to look at her, but he did not seem surprised as she crossed the library to join him. The Winchesters, however, were.

"You're leaving again?" Sam asked, equal parts confused and disappointed.

Nell half-turned and shrugged at him. She was doing that a lot, lately, it seemed. "All my stuff is at his house," she said simply. "And besides—I think it's about time I faked my death."

Sam and Dean's eyebrows rose in identical expressions of surprise, and then grim acceptance. The brotherly synchronicity did not make her smile as it might have done once.

"Right."

A second later Nell blinked in surprise at being swept into a tight hug. Sam stepped back, looking down at her with eyes too full of knowledge and sympathy, and Nell looked away. Dean hesitated, looking uncertain where he and Nell stood given all they'd been through in the last few weeks, and then seemingly decided to throw caution to the wind, pulling Nell into the same sort of masculine, brotherly embrace he'd shared with Sam back in the dungeon.

"Be careful, alright?" He said as he drew away. "I still don't trust that guy."

Nell didn't, either, so she nodded. She glanced at Castiel, but to her relief the angel did not seem inclined to hug her. He nodded in a sort of silent, respectful acknowledgment, and Nell nodded back.

Then she turned to join Cuthbert Sinclair.

* * *

Nell zipped the last of her belongings in the duffel bag, glancing around the bedroom to make sure she hadn't missed anything. Cuthbert Sinclair leaned on the wall near the door easily, looking perfectly content.

Nell supposed he would. He was alive again, he had performed an unprecedented feat of magic, he was watching the woman who'd been squatting in his house prepare to leave, and he had a fresh start to his collection of supernatural creatures. Nell had asked Sinclair to keep Gadreel in his dungeon, and Sinclair had quickly and enthusiastically agreed. It was a win-win: Sinclair got to keep an angel in his collection, and Nell got the satisfaction of knowing that Gadreel would be miserably imprisoned for eternity.

Now Sinclair asked, voice lightly curious, "What was all that talk about faking your death?"

Nell straightened to look at him, and wondered once again whether she should tell the truth. Once again, she was too numb and exhausted to come up with a lie, and simply answered.

"I became a vampire months ago, but before that I was terminally ill. My family's been expecting me to come back home before I die, or to hear about my death on the road somewhere."

Nell had been thinking about it off-and-on for some time, and had decided that she would leave her car near the Golden Gate bridge. It was a notoriously popular place to commit suicide, and the bodies of people who leapt off the bridge and into the bay were not always recovered. This was ideal for Nell, because she did not intend to actually jump off the bridge and leave a body behind.

Sinclair hummed thoughtfully, watching Nell through narrowed eyes. Then he said, too casually, "I could make you human again, you know."

Nell straightened and turned to stare at him, trying to gauge whether he was serious. It was difficult to tell with Sinclair. But he looked sincere, and even a little excited about the prospect. This latter detail set off warning bells in Nell's mind, but even so she had to ask.

"How?"

Sinclair smiled broadly. "Magic, of course." At Nell's blank look he added lightly, "It would involve some experimental soul manipulation, of course, but after that the process shouldn't be too different from the ritual you used to return me to this body."

 _Experimental soul manipulation_  did not sound promising. She remembered Crowley's description of Sam without a soul:  _Dangerous sociopath would be more accurate._  Would something like that happen to her, if Sinclair's experiment went wrong?

A week ago, Nell would not have even considered the proposition. She had resigned herself to life as a vampire at last, and even come to appreciate many aspects of it. She had stopped longing to be human the moment she'd realized the depth of her affections for Crowley.

But now that affection felt like it was killing her. Her love for Crowley and the sting of his betrayal felt like a gaping hole in her chest, like the demon had walked away with part of her soul. So what could Sinclair do, really, to make it any worse?

She had nothing to lose.

"How experimental?"

* * *

A snifter of very expensive brandy shattered against the wall.

Crowley watched it shatter with narrowed eyes, and then, still feeling destructive, hurled a crystal decanter at the wall for good measure.

It wasn't enough.

He had  _everything_. He had his throne. He had power. Every demon in hell was at his beck and call, groveling and eager to serve, because every demon who was  _not_ , who had resisted or betrayed him, was either dead or enduring eternal torture. He had everything he could have ever wanted, and more. He had, after all, found something impossibly rare and valuable when he'd gutted that uppity prince, Asmodeus. And now, Crowley had his very own archangel.

He had  _everything_.

It wasn't enough.

It was the damned woman's fault. Hers, and the Winchesters, because somehow or another everything that irritated Crowley and made his life miserable was always the Winchesters' fault. But mostly, it was hers.

Her fault that, when he strolled around covered in the blood of his enemies, he was disappointed to see only fear, and not lust, or admiration. Her fault that there was no one around to fully appreciate how damned  _clever_  he was, and to tell him so, or to roll her eyes and be damned clever back at him. Her fault that he had grown used to sharing his secrets, but could never do so again, because there was no one he trusted to listen.

"It's better to be feared than loved," Crowley snapped at the shattered glass on the floor in irritation. The glass just sat there, sparkling.

Crowley was reminded suddenly of the last time he'd shattered perfectly good glassware in a fit of anger, and how Nell had stepped on the shards. He recalled how he'd carefully taken the glass out of the sole of her slender foot, the warmth of her skin beneath his hands… the fact that she had not pulled away from him.

But she had pulled away, in the end. As everyone did. Crowley was a fool for thinking that she would be any different. That  _he_  could be any different.

He hadn't touched a drop of human blood in months. He should have been clean by now, he should not still feel… like he did. He should not be  _weak_.

But he was. And in the privacy of his office, he indulged in an addiction far more shameful than human blood. He pulled out his phone, and found the file easily. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and hit play.

" _Hey, Dean. Sorry if you hear weird noises in the background this time. I had to get out of the bunker for a bit…"_

Crowley swallowed heavily, taking in the sound of Nell's voice with all the euphoric relief that he'd once injected blood. Dean did not know, of course, that Crowley had forwarded the messages from Nell to his own phone. At the time, Crowley had merely been curious, and even a little hopeful that the girl would reveal some secrets or updates on the Winchesters' activities.

But now, Crowley did not listen for information. He listened to hear her voice, and the undisguised worry and affection in her words, pretending they were meant for him. Remembering when they were.

The message drew to its end, and Crowley soundlessly mouthed the last words from memory: " _Good luck. Stay safe. Come home soon."_

 _Home_. Crowley had never really considered Hell to be his home, or anywhere else, since his mortal life had ended. He'd had houses he favored, places he liked well enough, but nowhere he came back to year after year, nowhere that had the sentimental strings associated with the word  _home_.

But now the word meant something, evoking thoughts of blood and kisses and mid-century bedrooms.

Crowley was out of his chair and out of Hell before he even finished his thought—if he was thinking at all. It was pure impulse that drove him to the clearing, and which had him casting the spell to enter the house that had once belonged to Cuthbert Sinclair.

Nell wouldn't be there, he was sure. She would have moved on. Back to the bunker with the Winchesters, or else gone off on her own. But still, a part of him hoped and feared that she would be here.

Would she attack him? Yell at him? Say nothing at all? Crowley thought he could handle just about anything but the last.

And what would he do, if he saw her? Kiss her?  _Kill_ her? He had fantasized about both more than once over the last few weeks, often at the same time. He wanted her to  _hurt_  the way he did, the way she had  _made him_  hurt. And he wanted the hurt, and the stubborn emotions which caused the hurt in the first place, to stop.

But killing her wouldn't solve the problem. It was  _Crowley_  who was broken,  _Crowley_  who was corrupted by… by…

Crowley blinked and furrowed his brow. He had stepped through the portal into the house and taken several quick strides, and now he found himself upside down and shackled in iron engraved with a number of very powerful anti-demon sigils. Crowley stared at them in puzzlement and irritation.

"I dismantled this," he told the chains, as if his words would remind them and they would loosen. They did not.

"And I set it back up." Crowley looked up—down?—at the man approaching him down the hallway.

"Cuthbert Sinclair," Crowley said neutrally. "I could have  _sworn_ Dean Winchester killed you."

"Water under the bridge," Sinclair said with a dismissive wave of his hand. He looked up at Crowley with almost malicious interest, as if Crowley was a frog Sinclair was preparing to dissect. "Now. Were you merely attempting to invade my home again, or were you looking for someone?"

Crowley said nothing. Sinclair nodded anyway, as if he had said something, and adopted a somewhat pitying look.

"She's not here," Sinclair informed him. "The girl's gone home. I cured her."

Crowley assumed that by 'home', Sinclair meant 'the bunker'. He had no idea what the latter part meant. "Cured her of what?"

Sinclair looked surprised that Crowley had to ask. "Well, vampirism, of course."

Crowley hung there, and stared at him, and felt lost.

* * *

" _Is it a miracle? Or a conspiracy? Fertility clinics around the world are baffled, as thousands of hopeful parents struggling to have children have apparently conceived at the same time. Some happy couples are calling the phenomenon a miracle, but others worry that the timing is suspicious. Could the government, or some corporation, have interfered—"_

Nell stopped the newscast. She knew, as the newscasters did not, that the phenomenon was both miracle  _and_  conspiracy, though it favored the former. Nell also knew who had conspired to carry it out: Castiel must have performed the spell to turn the angels human. It was the only thing Nell could think of which would explain the mass-conception at such a large scale, and the timeline fit with a meteor shower that had occurred as Nell was driving home.

It had been surprisingly easy to settle into her old life. She had told Sam and Dean about Sinclair's procedure only after it was done, and successful. She did not know if they would have tried to stop her, but she was certain they would have argued, and probably worried, and she was more than happy to avoid the additional complications by withholding the information from them until it was too late. They had been shocked, but happy for her, and Nell had let them know that they were always welcome to crash at her place and enjoy a home-cooked meal whenever they had a case nearby.

Home-cooked meals were one of the best parts of being human, Nell thought now. She had taken them for granted before, but now she relished them, so much so that she had gained at least ten pounds in the month she'd been back. She had been thin when she'd left home on account of her illness, and then as a vampire because Nell was pretty sure that vampires couldn't get fat no matter how much blood they drank. But Nell was not sick, and she was not a vampire, and she had spent a good long while reacquainting herself with all the food she'd missed.

She'd also reacquainted herself with her family. They were overjoyed to see her return alive and well, but they were also curious. Nell had told them simply that she had been cured by a miracle. Her father and brother had not been convinced by this explanation, but had eventually accepted that Nell would say nothing more. Her mother had been ecstatic, and had tried making hints that Nell should appear more at church, or perhaps write a book, or consider going on morning talk shows to share her story.

Nell had been tempted, at times, to tell her that the miracle had been wrought, not by God, but by the forbidden and experimental soul-magic of a sociopathic warlock living in an invisible house somewhere is Kansas. She resisted the temptation, and declined her mother's ideas politely with vague nothing-words like ' _God works in mysterious ways,_ ' or ' _The good lord helps those who help themselves_ '.

She had seen a doctor only once, to confirm to her family that she was completely healed. The doctors had been mystified, and informed Nell and her family that there was no sign she'd ever been sick at all. They had wanted to keep her for further tests, and for research, and to ask many, many questions. Nell had told them that her recovery was a miracle, and never gone back.

Now, she sipped her coffee, and sat in the sunshine on the patio of her new apartment, and tried to enjoy being alive despite the ache in her chest.

It had lessened, when she'd become human again. Just about everything had lessened when she'd become human again—both her senses and her emotions were duller, less intense. But the ache had not disappeared, and sometimes it pulsed quietly at some reminder of why it was there. Over time, the wound in her now-beating heart, in her experimentally-human soul, might scab and scar over and heal.

But for now, Nell ached. And maybe she always would.

She could live with that, if she had to.

A knock sounded on the front door to her apartment, and Nell rose with a sigh, carrying her coffee mug with her in one hand. She'd arranged for a grocery delivery this morning, and she guessed it had arrived early.

Still clad in pajamas and clutching a half-full mug of coffee, Nell opened the door and furrowed her brow to see shiny black shoes where she'd expected to see brown paper bags. Her eyes trailed up suit-clad legs, to a well-fitted jacket and silk tie, then darted down again to make sure she had not imagined the bouquet of sunflowers, before finally meeting her visitor's eyes.

"Crowley."

Surprise did not begin to cover what Nell felt at seeing Crowley on her doorstep. She thought for a second that she must have fallen asleep in the sunshine of her porch and was not having a very pleasant dream, but dismissed the thought quickly. In the back of her mind Nell recalled some of the first words Crowley had ever spoken to her:  _You couldn't dream me up, darling._

"Nell," Crowley greeted easily, as if they had not parted more than a month ago on less-than-friendly terms. "May I come in?"

Nell thought about it. She wondered briefly if he was planning to kill her. He could have done it already, if he wanted to, but as he had also told her outright that he preferred to take his time with such matters. Nell also wondered if Crowley would let her change her clothes first. If she was going to be murdered, she would hate for her body to be discovered in a grungy old 5K t-shirt and a pair of seasonally-inappropriate reindeer pajama shorts that Nell had donned despite the fact that is was currently May.

But she doubted it would come to that. She stepped back and opened the door wide so Crowley could enter, sighing. "Sure, why not?" She watched as Crowley stepped onto the rug in her small entryway. "Are you here for my soul now?"

Crowley stepped further into the apartment, off the rug, and turned to face her. Frankly, he said, "I'd prefer to have all of you."

Nell looked at him with wide eyes, and then at the rug, and back again. Crowley watched her for a moment, then raised an amused eyebrow and kicked up the rug he'd just waltzed over and past, displaying the devil's trap painted carefully on the bottom. Nell stared at it in horror and despair—she had been  _sure_  that she'd copied it exactly.

"Devil's traps only work on demons, love," Crowley said simply, then glanced around the living room and then toward the kitchen. "Have you got a vase?"

Nell simply stared at him with her mouth open. Crowley smiled at her, looking pleased with himself, then strode toward the kitchen and began poking through cabinets with one hand, the other arm still full of sunflowers.

They were Nell's favorite, and she was positive that she'd never told him that fact.

Devil's traps only work on demons, he said. Obviously. That was the point. But he'd strolled over and out of the trap Nell had put under her rug, which meant…

"Since when are you not a demon?" Nell's voice was high and half-strangled.

"A few weeks, now," Crowley answered, sounding chipper. "I asked Moose to finish what he started—ah!" Crowley grinned with triumph as he straightened up, retrieving a glass vase from a low cupboard.

"And he  _helped_?" Nell asked, voice rising even higher with disbelief as Crowley filled the vase with water and carefully deposited the flowers within it. "He cured you?"

"Well, he did punch me first," Crowley admitted, then rubbed his cheek with a small grimace. "Dean helped."

Nell could not believe this. She could not believe that Crowley was standing in her kitchen, putting sunflowers in a vase, telling her that he was  _human_.

"You said humanity was overrated," Nell reminded him roughly.

"Yes, well." Crowley heaved a small shrug. "So is being a demon, as it turns out."

Nell swallowed, then asked, voice shaking and still not believing it, "You're human?"

A small shrug again, this time accompanied by a slightly bitter, self-deprecating look. "As much as I can be, anyway." He hesitated. "I was very good at being a demon. Being a man…" He trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

"You brought me flowers."

"Yes," Crowley agreed, then hesitated again. His tongue darted out to wet his lips in a familiar gesture, and Nell was surprised to feel a familiar flutter in her stomach.

"I admit it did occur to me that you wouldn't want to see me, let alone…" Crowley trailed off, then cleared his throat and continued, "Settle back into your ordinary life. Go back to being an accountant, try to leave it all behind. But seeing as there's salt on your windows and a devil's trap under your doormat…"

Crowley let the sentiment hang in the air, watching her with undisguised vulnerability. It was unsettling to Nell, not because she'd never seen him vulnerable, but because she'd never seen him so vulnerable while he was so clearly  _sober_.

Nell swallowed, and struggled to find words. "You became human again for  _me_?" Her voice was high with disbelief again. "You gave up immortality, and  _power_ , and—because—" She couldn't finish the thought.

Crowley finished it for her. "Because I love you?" He nodded. "Yes."

He spoke like it was simple, and obvious. He stood there, watching her, waiting for her to speak.

"What if I said no?" Nell asked, feeling breathless. Her heart, her beating, living heart, was going very fast. "You could have waited. You could have…"

Crowley shook his head. "I spent the last year teetering on the edge of humanity," Crowley said quietly. "It was time I took the leap… with or without you."

He did not have to say that he would prefer the former. That much was clear from the fact that he was there, standing in Nell's kitchen with a vase full of sunflowers and watching her stand there like a gaping idiot in rumpled pajamas with a half-full mug of cold coffee clutched in a death grip.

He watched her patiently for a minute, and then a little uncertainly, and then with vague amusement. Gently, he prompted her, "Now's the part where you say something."

Nell blinked at him and swallowed hard again. What  _could_  she say? What did one say in this situation?

She opened her mouth, and her jaw worked silently for a few seconds. Finally she sighed and crossed the room to bury her face in Crowley's chest, relishing the warmth of him and the smell of him and the firm press of his arms as he quickly returned her embrace. She spent a few long minutes savoring him, memorizing him, before at last she was able to find words.

"...How am I going to tell my parents we met?"


End file.
